


Sacred Made Profane

by Verilidaine



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Dry valve, Electricity Play, Knife Play, M/M, Plot With Porn, Seriously like do everything the opposite of how these two they do this so wrong, Sexual Violence, Sexual torture (consensual), Sticky Sexual Interfacing, The universe is like a scaled-up G1 sort of thing, Unsafe Sex, Valve abuse, Verbal Abuse, mutually destructive relationship, unsafe bdsm practices
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-03-14 23:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13600692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verilidaine/pseuds/Verilidaine
Summary: Prowl stood up, walked around the desk.  “So what was it this time?” he asked.  On the surface the question was useless; he knew perfectly well what Jazz’s mission was and they both knew it.  It was necessary nevertheless.  This was part of the process.  Grab the memories that the saboteur would likely rather wipe and drag them up, wash his primary processor with them before they could be repressed and turned into a potentially fatal trigger.Jazz’s visor flickered momentarily, the only change in his composure.  “You know what it was.”“Tell me,” Prowl said, taking two steps forward, flaring his doorwings.Jazz was not intimidated.  He did not move, did not flinch.  He never flinched, not from any kind of threat, anyway.  But he did tilt his head forward in acknowledgment and agreement.Consent.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I first posted this fic in 2012 and ran out of steam on the bunny before I could finish, but I've always wanted to return to it. I'm still very proud of this piece, and the bunny has been nibbling. It isn't finished but there are new chapters, and I'm hoping posting will help me get it to a conclusion. 
> 
> Please, please, take absolutely zero example from these two on how to practice safe BDSM play. They are irresponsible and unsafe. But they need each other.

The click of a lock was the only warning that another had joined him in his quarters, which meant that Prowl knew exactly who had just arrived.  He was sitting at his desk, facing the door but with his focus on Ratchet’s injuries and casualties report from their last battle.  The butcher’s bill.  The losses were within acceptable parameters to the tactician’s algorithms, but to Prowl, every single one was unacceptable.  Each one represented an error that he should have foreseen and prevented.  
  
Allowing himself to focus on the tension that the losses created somewhere deep in his systems, Prowl looked up.    
  
Jazz looked haunted, standing just inside the door, his visor glowing a sickeningly diluted blue.  The set of his mouth and the visible features were grim.    
  
Prowl stood up, walked around the desk.  “So what was it this time?” he asked.  On the surface the question was useless; he knew perfectly well what Jazz’s mission was and they both knew it.  It was necessary nevertheless.  This was part of the process.  Grab the memories that the saboteur would likely rather wipe and drag them up, wash his primary processor with them before they could be repressed and turned into a potentially fatal trigger.      
  
Jazz’s visor flickered momentarily, the only change in his composure.  “You know what it was.”  
  
“Tell me,” Prowl growled, taking two steps forward, flaring his doorwings.    
  
Jazz was not intimidated.  He did not move, did not flinch.  He never flinched, not from any kind of threat, anyway.  But he did tilt his head forward in acknowledgment and agreement.    
  
Consent.    
  
Prowl released the normally obsessive control he kept over his processor, let circuits connect in that, without Jazz, would have stayed dark forever.  They flared to life with ravenous, deadly need.    
  
Jazz cycled once, then spoke.  “Mission: infiltrate Decepticon headquarters and gain access to primary medical bay undetected,” he said, voice affectless.    
  
“Objective?” Prowl asked, clasping his hands behind his back and starting a slow pace around the edge of the room, never taking his optics off Jazz.    
  
“Objective: plant infected energon in the lines connecting to the medical bay dispenser in such a way that it will spread to main holdings.”  
  
“Reason?”  
  
“Infected energon carries a prototype virus potentially capable of destroying a mech’s reproductive capacities, provided a cure is neither devised nor discovered.”  
  
Prowl was right next to Jazz by now, just slightly in front of him.  “Outcome?” he asked softly.    
  
“Mission successful.” A barely-perceptible shudder moved down Jazz’s frame.  
  
“Probable consequences?”  
  
“The virus mimics the symptoms of other unthreatening diseases,” Jazz said.  “Those who drink the infected energon will likely not realize until it is too late that something is wrong.  They—”  
  
“Finish,” Prowl said.  His voice carried a dark promise if Jazz disobeyed.    
  
“They will never be able to pass on their base coding or unique biomechanics to a protoform.”  
  
“Purpose?”  
  
“Psychological warfare.  Possible future attempt to thin the Decepticon species.”  
  
Prowl said nothing, watching the way Jazz was shattering in silence.  He let the saboteur begin to destroy himself from within until he saw the breaking point on Jazz’s face.  He reached up then, stroked his knuckles down the other’s jawline.  “Do you realize what you’ve done to them?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Mechs who are innocent of everything but being blackmailed into Megatron’s service, some of them who might have dreams of carrying or creating, will lose that forever.”  
  
Jazz gave a choked gasp, and this time, the shudder was anything but imperceptible.    
  
Prowl trailed his fingers over Jazz’s lips, then down, following the line of his chin to his neck.  “If you had refused the mission?”  
  
“I was not given the choice of refusing.”  
  
“But if you had.”  
  
“No one else could have done it.”  
  
That was the key, the admission that Prowl wanted, needed.  The words that meant Jazz would be able to withstand what they both needed tonight.  His hand turned and twisted into a choke around Jazz’s throat and he pushed back, slamming his helm into the door.  Jazz gave a strangled gasp.    
  
“You’ve destroyed them,” Prowl hissed, and he didn’t know if he was talking to Jazz or himself.  Or both.  It didn’t matter, it never mattered.  His focus zeroed in on the pressure of his fingers, the way they were cutting off the air intakes and causing Jazz’s vents to stall out.    
  
Jazz mouthed his name, visor flaring bright as his optics flashed.    
  
Prowl’s engines rumbled in a deep growl and he jerked his arm down, pulling Jazz forward and forcing him onto his knees before him.  “You sicken me.”  He let go and stalked away.    
  
Jazz drew in much-needed air and kick-started his vents.  “No,” he begged.    
  
Prowl rounded.  “No?  _No?_ ”  He struck Jazz across the face, putting a force behind the blow that he rarely allowed himself even on a battlefield.  Jazz was thrown sideways, staying where he landed.  Prowl lunged forward and seized him, pulling him back up only to throw him against the wall.  Jazz landed hard and struggled to his knees, arms wrapping around his chest as he trembled.  His visor was barely lit.    
  
Prowl stalked over, calmly slid his hand under a shoulder plate and hauled Jazz away from the wall.  The plate, not meant to be weight-bearing, tore.  Jazz cried, startled at the pain, and dropped where Prowl let go in the middle of the room.    
  
“Assassin,” Prowl hissed, pacing around Jazz in circles.  Jazz shook at the word, shook his helm, trying to deny it.    
  
“I was ordered—”  
  
Prowl snarled.  He was behind Jazz and reached over his helm to grab the edge and yanked back.  He knew the force would strain wires in the throat, and the way Jazz groaned confirmed it.    
  
“That has been the excuse of every war criminal since the dawn of time,” Prowl said, and released Jazz with a push.  “But _you_ planted the virus.  _You_ set that bomb.  _You_ weakened the supports of the collapse that killed everyone in the area.”  
  
Jazz moaned, a hopeless sound.    
  
Prowl knelt down next to him, brushed his lips over the audio receptors, and dropped his voice to a gentle whisper.  “You know they reported more than a dozen mecha who were slowly crushed to death.  They screamed for _orns_.”  
  
Jazz doubled over and his mouth opened in a silent cry of pain, features contorting with grief as he stared unseeing at the floor.      
  
“And now,” Prowl said, rising back to his pedes.  “ _Now_.”  Jazz didn’t react, so Prowl snapped in front of his face, startling him out of whatever memory he had fallen into.    
  
Jazz raised his head with effort, watched Prowl warily.    
  
“Assassin,” Prowl hissed again.  
  
Jazz’s visor went dim.  “Yes.”  
  
That was the final step of their opening dance.  With a growl that would have sent most mechs running the other way, Prowl grabbed Jazz’s arm and hauled him to his pedes, twisting the limb behind his back and pushing up.  Jazz groaned as cables and joints that were never meant to turn that way creaked.  Prowl pushed him forward, steering them both into the bedroom, pushing Jazz over the berth, bent at the waist, arm still twisted.    
  
“Prowl,” Jazz gasped, for the first time letting a hint of fear creep into his voice.    
  
“Shut up,” Prowl snapped.  He pulled his knife out of subspace and heard it crackle to life with charge.  In his processor, the first images of the fallen from the battle started to flash by.  He pressed the blade to Jazz’s neck.  Jazz froze.    
  
Face after face, smiling as they relaxed in the rec room, joking with friends, playing games in their off time.  The blade easily sliced through metal.  Jazz hissed.    
  
“Murderer,” Prowl said, his voice more unsteady now.  When he heard the shake in his words, his rage flared.  He shouted, drew the blade around, and _slammed_ it into Jazz’s shoulder.    
  
Jazz screamed, twisted.  Prowl held him tighter, pulled the blade down, tearing through circuits and energon lines, spilling the bright liquid over both of them.  He pulled the knife out, drove it into Jazz’s side, and Jazz’s vocalizer laced with static as he strained the volume limits.  
  
Prowl twisted the arm harder and there was a sharp crack.  The fingers went limp and Jazz’s entire frame convulsed.  Prowl pushed away, noting with a clinical detachment that the shoulder’s primary joint had dislocated.  The arm was useless.    
  
Jazz slid off the bed onto his knees.  Prowl spun a kick into the side of his helm, flooring the saboteur in a single blow.  Jazz moaned, good arm going up to the side of his face, and rolled onto his back.    
  
Prowl sank down on top of him in a straddle and dragged the tip of the knife over the chest plating, tracing the outline of the large four right in the middle.  Jazz went rigid and arched up, good arm shooting up automatically towards the source of the pain.  Prowl grabbed his wrist.  “None of that,” he growled, and snapped the wrist back with a sickening crack.  
  
Jazz’s visor flickered dark and when he opened his mouth, only static came out.    
  
“Disgusting, rusted wreck,” Prowl hissed.  Faces continued to force themselves to the front.  Smiling, they were _always_ smiling.  Stifling another shout, Prowl dropped the limp hand.  It fell onto Jazz’s chest, landed in the growing pool of energon.    
  
Prowl reached down between Jazz’s legs and wrenched the interface panel completely off.  He pushed his fingers into the completely unprepared valve and Jazz’s visor onlined immediately, flaring almost white.  His hips bucked up but Prowl tightened his legs to keep himself steady.  He drove roughly, fingers heating from the friction caused by grating metal against metal.    
  
Jazz’s vents hitched as his vocalizer released broken, static-laced sobs.    
  
“Do you see their faces?” Prowl demanded.   “Do they follow you into your recharge?  Do you wonder who they might have been, if you had never set out to destroy them?”  
  
An agonized cry was his only response.  Prowl could feel his spike pushing up from its housing, pressing against his outer plating.  He lifted the knife again, pulling it down Jazz’s body as he slid back between legs that opened with just a brush.  He pulled his fingers out, noting with a dark sense of approval that they were still completely dry.    
  
“You deserve this,” Prowl whispered as he slid his panel away.  His spike extended and he settled the tip right against Jazz’s valve.  “You deserve worse.”  He pushed forward, shuddered at the heat.  Not heat from arousal, but still lingering from the friction.  Prowl was sure that Jazz’s sensitive inner metal would be severely friction burnt.  He settled on top of Jazz, wrapped his fingers around the other mech’s throat.  He thrust, groaning as the valve clenched tightly.    
  
Jazz’s visor was bright as he looked up at Prowl, anguish and desperation on his face.  And pain.  Most importantly, pain.    
  
“Killer,” Prowl spat, and rocked his hips.  “Filthy killer.”  He tightened his chokehold.  Jazz shuddered and his legs drew back, opening his valve wider.  “Yes,” Prowl hissed.  “You know you deserve this.”  Jazz’s spilled energon was staining him everywhere they touched.    
  
“I deserve this,” Jazz repeated in a hoarse whisper.    
  
It made Prowl’s spike throb.  He groaned, buried himself as deep as he could.  “Sickening,” he replied, and the strain in his voice gave away his rapidly approaching overload.  The faces faded from his mind.  For good measure, and to make sure they stayed gone, he leaned in, pressed his face to Jazz’s neck, and bit down at the same moment that he drove the knife into a seam in Jazz’s hip and yanked it back, slicing through plating and wires.    
  
Jazz screamed and bucked and the shudder in his body made Prowl lose himself to the feeling of the tight valve.  He groaned tightly and his thrusts became desperate, erratic.    
  
“N—no—I—I—c—c—” Jazz’s vocalizer shorted over and over and he screamed again as Prowl hit the bottom of his valve and _pushed_ , then his spike throbbed and he shot, hard, making Jazz spasm in pain at the force on the sensors.  His scream cut off into static as Prowl shook, gasping, riding the waves of the overload through to the end.    
  
And when it was over, neither of them moved.  One set of cooling vents whirred at top speed, the other one kept stalling out and clicking as damaged systems tried desperately to stop the nearing-lethal overheating.  
  
The faces were gone.  Prowl vented out in relief and then shuddered when he looked down.  His spike drew back out and the only sign that Jazz was still online was the twitch it caused when it left his valve.    
  
Prowl pushed up onto his knees, taking just a moment to gather himself, quickly reigning the surges in his processor in to the acceptable limits, before he moved off of Jazz.  Very, very carefully he slid his arms under the injured mech and lifted, placing him on the berth.  Energon immediately seeped into the soft material, staining it.  
  
Jazz twitched again and focused with difficulty on Prowl’s face.  “Pr—l—”  
  
“Shh,” Prowl murmured.  “Keep still, alright?  You can recharge in a minute, I need you online just a little longer.”  
  
Jazz’s head jerked in a nod.  He was shaking from the damage and energon loss, barely able to move or respond.  He stared blindly up at the ceiling, twitching every time Prowl touched him.    
  
Prowl worked quickly and efficiently, first thing being to slide back the panels over Jazz’s primary vents to find the source of the clicking.  A torn wire had worked into one of the chambers and was tangled around the blades, which were trying to turn against the restraint, clicking every time they reset.  He loosed the wire and the fan spun to life.  Jazz jerked as it pulled much-needed cool air in.  Prowl checked the other fan, found it working acceptably, and closed Jazz’s chest.  The rest of the damage was nothing he was not prepared to deal with, but before Jazz could be allowed to slip into recharge, he needed to refuel and Prowl had to check the status of his processor.    
  
“Jazz?”  
  
Jazz’s head turned towards him with effort.    
  
“I need to check your processor,” Prowl said, lifting his fingers to touch the shallow dent in the helm where he’d connected with his kick.  “I hit you pretty hard.”  
  
Jazz nodded.  He knew the routine for that, and obediently let the small array on his chest open.  The clean surface inside was a stark contrast to the rest of his energon-covered plating.  Prowl opened his own and in a very no-nonsense manner tugged his cable out and plugged into Jazz.  Jazz made a soft sound as Prowl carefully pushed forward.    
  
Jazz was a tangled mess of firing circuits, but as Prowl searched, he could find no actual damage beyond that which the Ops commander had already inflicted on himself.  He had been down these paths many times before and it took him almost no time to confirm that Jazz was functioning as he normally did.    
  
Prowl hesitated a moment when he came to the memory clusters containing Jazz’s mission files.  He wouldn’t look, but he made sure that the hardline between those and the memories of their nights together was strong.  He needed that line to be an automatic link when the mission files were called up, not for himself, but for Jazz.  If it wasn’t, the saboteur, already heavily damaged from self-inflicted guilt, could spiral into a flashback loop that he might not be able to rise back out of.  
  
That line was the only escape route.  Prowl pushed a charge through it for good measure and felt Jazz’s frame shiver beneath him.    
  
Satisfied, Prowl pulled his awareness back into his own mind and disconnected.  He pulled an energon cube from subspace, one that he always made sure was full before Jazz came home from a hard mission, and held it to the other’s mouth.  “Drink,” he commanded.    
  
The action was automatic, blind obedience to a direct order, but the whys were not important right now.  Prowl watched the lines in Jazz’s neck for new bleeds as he swallowed.  Jazz’s repair systems had already started to care for the more minor injuries—stretched wires, small tears in his lines—but Prowl needed to be very careful not to miss anything major.  A bleed-out while Jazz was recharging would create a massive amount of problems.    
  
Not to mention, Prowl thought with a frown, emotional distress.  Like it or not, he and Jazz were bound together, probably for the rest of their lives.  The thought unsettled him, but all it took was looking at Jazz’s face to ease the anxiety.    
  
When Jazz handed the empty cube back, Prowl set it to the side.  “Can you speak?”  
  
Jazz shook his head silently.    
  
“Is your vocalizer damaged?”  
  
Another no.  Processor block, then.  Prowl hadn’t looked for that specifically, but it happened often and would reset when Jazz rebooted.  All normal damage tonight.    
  
The thought that the phrase _normal damage_ should not pass approval from his logic programs arose, unbidden, and Prowl brushed it aside as he crossed the room to retrieve the supplies that he kept stored in a hidden compartment in the wall.  He absently noted the amount of spilled energon on the floor as he returned and calculated how long it would take to clean.  He laid the supplies out on the berth and looked back up into Jazz’s face.  “Recharge,” he said.  
  
Jazz nodded, then looked distressed.    
  
Prowl understood the problem.  He wrapped his fingers around Jazz’s uninjured hand and squeezed.  “I know,” he said.  The distressed look faded and Jazz’s frame settled as his visor dimed and went dark.    
  
Prowl allowed himself the luxury of watching the face he had grown to care for so much for another few moments before he picked up his welder and started in on his repairs.    
  


* * *

  
Jazz stayed in recharge longer than normal and Prowl was starting to worry that he’d brought up too many memories, that his lover’s subroutines were having trouble with the old guilt.  He reminded himself that nothing had been unusual the night before, for the dozenth time, and watched Jazz’s face, free from the emotion that so often burdened it.    
  
Not always negative emotion, either.  Jazz had a flawless grin that he showed to those around him, tricking them into believing that he was unaffected by his work.  It was his poker face, the one that both saved and damned him.  It let the higher-ups, the ones who were afraid to dirty their servos, believe they weren’t destroying this soldier.    
  
_Fools_ , Prowl thought, letting his optics trail down Jazz’s body.    
  
He hadn’t been able to repaint, but that was the only sign left that the previous night, this mech had looked like a Decepticon plaything.  The room was clean, Jazz was clean, the only loose ends left were the energon stains on the berth and the need for a touch-up job.  Easy enough to explain, Jazz had been undercover for nearly a metacycle.  Any number of things could have caused the superficial damage.    
  
Prowl double-checked the shoulder joint once more, and trailed his fingers over the new plating he’d welded over the knife wounds, ground down until the shine was gone.  He reassured himself once more that Jazz was alright, it had just been a harder mission than most.  
  
Almost like he could sense Prowl’s increasing concern, Jazz’s systems began to whir to life.  The faint, comforting hum of Jazz booting up made Prowl relax.  He stroked Jazz’s helm as his visor began to glow.  Prowl noted with approval that it was a much richer shade of blue than it had been the night before.    
  
“Vocalizer?” he asked.  
  
Jazz clicked and hummed in a brief test.  “Working.”  He sat partway up and winced.  
  
“Your valve will be sore,” Prowl said.  “Metal burn.”  
  
Jazz nodded in acknowledgement.    
  
“Do you want salve?”  
  
“Not today.”  Jazz shifted and winced again.    
  
Prowl discretely tucked the bottle he’d already pulled out back into subspace, forced to admit to himself that he was a little disappointed.  Some mornings Jazz let him use the salve and his fingers to coax him into overload, but more often the saboteur wanted to feel the burn with every step he took.  Prowl wasn’t surprised by the answer, everything considered.  
  
Jazz sat up all the way and crossed his legs, hissing softly at the pain.  “Haa, ‘s good,” he murmured.    
  
Prowl touched his helm to his lover’s, silent understanding and reassurance.     
  
Jazz tested his shoulder and found it rotating perfectly.  “You were in a mood.”  
  
Prowl’s optics dimmed.  “We lost good ‘Bots.”  
  
Jazz flexed his fingers before pressing his hand to the side of Prowl’s face.  “I know.”  He hummed.  “Thank you.  I’m not sure I would have recharged at all.”  
  
“Nor I,” Prowl admitted.  
  
“You had time?”  
  
“A little.”  A lie.    
  
Jazz frowned.  He was perfectly capable of accessing his injury logs, figuring out how much time repairs of this level would have taken, checking his chronometer and having plenty of evidence to call Prowl out on it.  He didn’t.    
  
“Seeing any of them?”  
  
Prowl shuddered.  Jazz was the only one who knew about his processor’s tendency to bring the personnel files forward.  “Not right now.”  
  
Jazz cocked his head and his focus faded for a moment as he answered an internal comm.  “Ratchet has been pinging me since I got back, if I don’t go see him he’ll probably come get me himself.”  
  
“Where does he think you were?”  
  
Jazz shrugged.  “Don’t care.”  He stood up, winced once more, and then made the seamless transition into the relaxed, cheerful ‘Bot that everyone was familiar with.  He shot Prowl a grin and held his arms out, spinning around once.  “Looks damn good, Prowler.”  
  
Prowl managed a smile in return, but it was forced.  
  
Jazz started to leave and paused right at the doorway and looked back.  “Can we recharge here tonight?”  
  
_Will you hurt me again?_  
  
Prowl considered the request.  They could both use it.  He certainly could, and if Jazz was asking, it meant he still needed more.  And there was nothing in the foreseeable future that could create complications.  He nodded once.    
  
“Excellent,” Jazz said, then lifted two fingers to his helm in a casual salute.  “See ya.”  
  
“See you,” Prowl said, and Jazz was gone.    
  
Prowl offlined his optics and focused inward, replaying Jazz’s screams.  They eased the ache deep in his frame, just a little.  Prowl focused outward again, caught the violent circuits that were trying to activate before they could come fully to life.  _Later_ , he promised himself, and set about stripping the berth to clean the rest of the evidence of the previous night.


	2. Chapter 2

“And you’re telling me you did these repairs in the field?” Ratchet asked.    
  
“Sure did,” Jazz said.    
  
“Even the welding.”   
  
Jazz nodded.    
  
Ratchet grunted and looked over Jazz‘s arm for a few more moments. “It’s good work,” he finally admitted.  When Jazz didn’t say anything, he looked back at his scanner.   “And you said you were…”   
  
“I got caught in a scrap chute,” Jazz said.  He gestured to his chest.  “Scratched my paint all to Pit.”   
  
“Hm.”  Ratchet frowned.  “Why didn’t you come see me as soon as you got back?”   
  
“Because sometimes I would rather have some high grade and a good recharge before I have to face the Ratchet Rundown,” Jazz said, grinning.    
  
Ratchet huffed, a disguise for his laugh.  “Well, you look fine.  I’d still like to get a look at your injury logs, in case there’s anything you missed.”   
  
“Really, I’m good,” Jazz said.  “Can I get them to you later?”   
  
“You got somewhere to be?”   
  
“I still have to submit my official report,” Jazz said.  “You know how Prowl gets.  I’ll get a hard copy for you, that work?”  
  
“That’s fine.  Oh and Jazz,” Ratchet said as the other slipped off his examination table and made to leave.  Jazz stopped and looked at him.  “Listen, I know you’re not a fan of the idea, but if I can just get you to reconsider…”   
  
“No.”   
  
“No one would know where the data came from but me,” Ratchet said.  “All personal information would be immediately purged from the files.  And I think it could help a lot of mecha—a lot of _your_ agents.  No one handles this assignment better than you do.”   
  
“The answer is still no,” Jazz said.  He squeezed Ratchet’s shoulder.  “I know you think it would help, and I’m sorry, but a processor read is out of the question.”   
  
Ratchet sighed.  “What I wouldn’t give to know how you cope so well.”   
  
Jazz offered him a slight grin.  “Nothing to it.  I don’t do anything fancy, you wouldn’t get anything useful from me anyway.”   
  
Ratchet grumbled for a few moments, then waved Jazz away.  “Go on then, get.  And don’t forget to bring me those logs.”   
  
“Roger, chief,” Jazz said, and strolled away.  With a mischievous glint in this optics, he whistled the opening melody to an Earth song he’d taken to recently, about always looking on the bright side of life.    
  
A wrench whistled past his head.    
  
“Frag you, now it’s going to loop in my processor!”   
  
Laughing, Jazz fled. 

* * *

Prowl finished with his last appointment of the day—ironically, discussing Jazz’s most recent assignment with Optimus—and returned to his quarters.  He looked around when he entered, decided that Jazz wasn’t there yet, and went into the berthroom to double check that everything he wanted for tonight was set out.  He trailed his fingers over the edge of the berth, fingered the chains he had rigged earlier, and then felt more than heard the saboteur enter the main room.    
  
“Tricky lock,” Jazz said, appearing in the doorway.    
  
“I thought you might enjoy a puzzle,” Prowl said, turning to face him.    
  
Jazz stepped forward, pushed Prowl back into a sit on the berth, and climbed onto his lap.  “We forgot to modify my injury logs.”   
  
“Ah, slag,” Prowl said.  Jazz was calm, so he had obviously been able to escape suspicion, but that was a mistake they couldn’t afford to make.  “Ratchet ask for them?”   
  
“Mm.  He still wants to read my processor, too.  Figure out how I cope so well.”  A bitter smile accompanied the flare in his visor.    
  
“You cope how you need to,” Prowl said, wrapping his arms around Jazz’s waist, pushing his hips up.  Jazz hummed and pushed back.  “They wouldn’t understand.  He has no right to ask after you’ve told him no.”   
  
“He’s only trying to help the others.”  
  
“He still has no right,” Prowl said, and a growl accompanied the words.  “No means no.”  
  
“Prowl…”  Softer, a plea.    
  
Prowl’s hands tightened and his fingers pushed against the transformation seams, threatening the sensitive wires.  “You cope how you need to,” he repeated, but with something completely different in his voice.  “You find the punishment you deserve.”   
  
Jazz shivered and his visor went dark.  “Need you,” he whispered.    
  
“I know,” Prowl crooned, and slowly, he released the circuits that were screaming to be freed, but not yet all the way.  He moved one arm down, supporting Jazz, and stood up.  Jazz wrapped his arms and legs around Prowl and Prowl carried him the few steps to the middle of the room.  He shifted his grip around Jazz and lowered his legs down.  “Arms behind your back.”   
  
Jazz obeyed.  Prowl pulled down the chains and looped them quickly and efficiently around the saboteur’s wrists, pulling them as tightly as he could.  Jazz didn’t make a sound, even though it had to hurt.    
  
“How many on your conscience tonight?”  
  
It was a question of how much Jazz could take, how much he needed.  Prowl forced himself to keep his hope in check.  Always, always it was how much Jazz needed.  Nothing more, and never less.    
  
“Too many,” Jazz said, and his visor lit again, looking right at Prowl.  
  
And Prowl didn’t hold anything back as soon as he had those words.  The dark recesses of his processor flared to life with a vicious hunger and he raked his fingers up Jazz’s arms, moving through the seams, pulling at the most sensitive wires he could find before stepping away.  A flicker went over Jazz’s visor and his vents sounded stuttered and anxious.   
  
Prowl had rigged the chains in the center of the room with an anchor near the head of the berth.  He wrapped that other end around his hand and pulled.    
  
Jazz gave a startled groan when he was jerked up, and then another when he was lifted off his pedes.  He hung there, swinging slightly, his shoulders bent back in a way they were not designed for.  Prowl picked up the probe laying on the berthside table and flicked it on.  A blue flare of electricity crackled away from the pronged tip.    
  
Jazz froze when he tasted the charge in the air.    
  
“Too many?” Prowl asked softly, not to double-check Jazz’s answer, because they both knew there was no taking the words back.  “Too many that you’ve destroyed.”  He stalked a slow circle around the hanging mech, who followed his movement with barely perceptible shifts in his visor.  “Too many that _you_ have destroyed.”  He held the probe just off of Jazz’s frame, stepping carefully, letting him feel the heat from the electricity, allowing small jumpers to connect.  Jazz twitched with each one.    
  
Prowl came around front, lifted one hand up, wrapping his fingers around Jazz’s throat and yanking forward, putting more strain on his shoulders.  “Look at me,” he hissed.  “Look and tell me that if you had never crossed their paths, they might still be alive.”   
  
Jazz shivered again.  “They might,” he said, meeting Prowl’s focused optics.  “Many of them might.’   
  
Prowl shoved the probe forward, directly into the grill in the middle of Jazz’s chest, choosing the spot right over the most sensitive cluster of wires.  No point in starting out slow.    
  
Jazz shrieked and jerked as the current jolted into his frame.  Prowl hissed as it echoed and fed back into him, but knew that Jazz’s systems were absorbing the majority of the charge.  He scrolled his thumb over the small dial, amping the current up.    
  
Jazz’s visor flickered and blackened as the electricity shorted out both his optics and his vocalizer.  Prowl pulled away.    
  
“How many of them,” he said, “Do you think were given a choice in joining the war?  Starving youngsters who would have died in the streets without the backing of an army, mechlings who had no other hope for survival.  Mecha who were forced in to protect their families, Seekers blackmailed for their wings, gestalts for their strength.”   
  
Jazz moaned.  One of his own intelligence missions had uncovered those files.  Almost every trine had one or more members who had been forced into service through threats against their home, their wings being invaluable to Megatron.  Gestalts were taken down from within; a bomb planted in one guaranteed the loyalty of all.    
  
And a lifetime of service warped them into an enemy that Jazz destroyed with ruthless efficiency.   
Prowl moved the probe away, considered the hanging mech in front of him.  Jazz’s vision was flickering back on.    
  
“No sound,” Prowl whispered, caressing Jazz’s face.  “No sound until you can’t stand it.”   
Of course, a SpecOps Jazz who was set on making no sound would do so until he deactivated from sheer agony--such was the Ops training.  But _this_ Jazz, this beautiful, broken creature, submitting himself for absolution … he had a different threshold.  One that Prowl could break.  One that he reveled in breaking.    
  
Jazz nodded, and with a surge of rage and hunger, Prowl yanked him down into a crushing kiss, biting into his lower lip.  Jazz tried to jerk his head back, but Prowl held him tight and ripped his denta through the softer, sensitive alloy around Jazz’s mouth.  Prowl pulled away, energon staining his lips, and ran his thumb through the bleeding running down Jazz’s chin.  Jazz tried to turn again.    
  
Prowl hit him across the face with an open hand and grabbed his collar, yanking down, hearing the snaps and cracks that indicated joints stretched beyond their capacity.  Jazz grimaced.  Prowl brushed the probe against his neck and watched the expressions go across Jazz’s face, then dug it in to the sensitive wires.  Jazz’s mouth opened in a silent scream.  Prowl’s lips turned up in a smile, vicious and cruel, and he set about breaking the mech before him.   
  
Nothing but the crackle of electricity and the rattle of chains as Jazz jerked and struggled broke the silence in the room.  Prowl used his intimate knowledge of the saboteur’s frame to coax as much pain out of him as he could without pushing him to the point of vocalizing it.    
  
Until he could not wait to hear his prize’s scream, could not ignore the burning need that had grown, taken over his systems.  Pulling the probe away, he sent a command for the anchor of the chain to release.  Jazz fell into Prowl’s arms, limp and trembling, and Prowl yanked the chains from his wrists, letting them fall with a clatter.  
  
“You will scream for me,” Prowl hissed, and pushed Jazz into wall.  Jazz shook, still silent.  Prowl pressed behind him, pushed his leg between Jazz’s, opening them.  His spike extended and he groaned as it touched Jazz’s heated plating.  Reaching around, he brushed the probe over Jazz’s panel, letting it spark.  Jazz stiffened and arched back, fingers clawing for purchase against the wall.  Prowl pushed closer, slowly, until the prongs touched metal.  Still Jazz resisted, and his fingers left grooves behind them.    
  
“So many lives, to have held out this long,” Prowl whispered.  He pulled away the panel, and slammed the probe into Jazz’s valve.    
  
Jazz’s scream was ripped from his vocalizer and shredded the air around them.  Prowl almost overloaded right then and there.  He gasped, shuddered, pulled the probe out and in one smooth motion, he lifted Jazz up and brought him back down onto his spike.  Jazz spasmed and shrieked, tearing at the hands gripping him as Prowl thrust up, over and over, pushing deep into the tortured body.  Hot and tight, unprepared and agonized.    
  
Overload took him fast and hard and he bit down into Jazz’s shoulder, shuddering.  Jazz froze beneath him, going completely silent.    
  
Prowl’s knees buckled with the force of the charge and they collapsed together, vents working at their limits.  Prowl pulled out and away, and his grip around Jazz’s body shifted, changed from a hold into an embrace.    
  
Jazz was shaking.  “So good to me,” he managed, his voice strained with the effort it took to speak.    
  
“Always,” Prowl promised, stroking the dark helm.  “Always, my beautiful one.”  He subspaced the probe, switched it out for the salve. Without giving Jazz a choice, he dipped his fingers in and lowered his hand between Jazz’s legs, pushing into him.    
  
Jazz stiffened and groaned, arching back against him, helm falling onto his shoulder.    
  
“Shh,” Prowl murmured.  “You’ve paid your dues tonight.”  He moved slowly; Jazz’s valve was still tight and resistant, quivering from the abuse.  When the salve thinned, Prowl pulled out, recoated, and pressed back in.  Jazz took a shuddery intake.    
  
“Prowl…”   
  
Prowl whispered soothing nothings into Jazz’s audials while he worked, pressing slowly and carefully, taking the necessary time to work his lover back up from the pain.  When the first shivers of pleasure ran through Jazz’s body, Prowl felt them and lifted his free hand up to Jazz’s chest, touching the same sensitive wires he had tortured before with precise care.  Jazz’s vents hitched and he whimpered.    
  
The build-up was long, but Prowl was patient, and finally, he was holding a beauty who was shaking with overload, clenched around his fingers, vocalizer crackling with pleasure.    
  
 “There, lover, there,” Prowl said, keeping his voice quiet, rocking him while the charge dissipated.   
  
Jazz slumped, exhausted and spent, and Prowl held him easily, soothing and petting until the other drifted into recharge.  Prowl lifted him and carried him to the berth, carefully laying him down, and quickly checked his frame over.    
  
Not nearly the same amount of damage as the previous night, and nothing that took Prowl long to tend to.  The shoulders were the worst damage, and even then, Prowl had fixed much worse.  He even had time to curl up next to Jazz and slip into his own recharge, feeling more at peace with himself than he had in a long time.  

* * *

 Prowl began booting up the next morning when Jazz climbed on top of him and pressed their hips together.  By the time he was fully online, his panel had retracted to allow his spike to extend.  He onlined his optics to the sight of Jazz riding him, upright and head thrown back, lost to his pleasure.  He lifted his hands to Jazz’s hips and pushed, gasping, into the wet heat.  Jazz pushed back and moaned his name.    
  
Overload came quickly for both of them and afterward they lay together, Jazz with his head on Prowl’s chest.  Prowl absently stroked Jazz’s helm, running his fingertip over the stubby sensor horns, earning himself a purr.    
  
“Unless you need it, I think we can recharge in your quarters,” Prowl said.    
  
Jazz nodded.  “I think so.”   
  
Several more kliks passed in silence.    
  
“What would I do without you?” Jazz asked.    
  
Prowl didn’t answer as he continued petting his lover.  He stared at the ceiling, considering the question.  It was one that had been troubling him lately.  When this had started, it had been a mutually beneficial partnership.  For him, a way to vent the overwhelming violence that lurked deep within his processor on a willing partner, and for Jazz, a way to feel his spark-consuming guilt washed away by physical pain.  Somewhere along the way, it had turned into something more.  Something twisted and tangled and tight.  Something it hurt to think about.  Something that could have been beautiful, should have been, if they had met in a different lifetime.  Under the harsh spotlight of war, it was tragic and dangerous.    
  
“The same thing I would do without you,” Prowl finally murmured in response.    
  
Jazz lifted his head, looked into Prowl’s optics.  They both knew the silent answer to that question, and they both knew it must never be spoken. 


	3. Chapter 3

Prowl was sitting in an officers’ meeting, absently listening to Optimus go over the most recent reports of Decepticon activity, not expecting to hear anything unusual and therefore allowing his primary attention the luxury of wandering a bit.  Jazz was sitting next to him and Prowl fully intended to coax his lover into the berth later on, before any of Jazz’s other usuals could beat him there.    
  
Prowl’s gaze flickered around the room and he easily picked out the mecha who had been with Jazz.  He wasn’t jealous; he liked the challenge.  And if he ever did feel like being jealous, it was easy enough to remind himself that he was the only one permitted to touch Jazz’s valve.  Yes, it was out of necessity more than anything truly emotional on Jazz’s part—the friction burns and tears in the lining were not easy explanations—but it did give Prowl some amount of satisfaction.  
  
He resettled in his chair and in the periphery of his vision, he saw Jazz’s head tilt his way, just slightly.  He glanced more fully and saw a hint of a smirk.  In that uncannily accurate way that made him so good at his work, Jazz knew exactly what Prowl was thinking.  Under the cover of the table, Prowl felt Jazz’s knee nudge against his at the same time he received a comm request.    
  
::This is very serious, Prowl, you should be paying attention.::  
  
Prowl clicked internally.  ::Yes, very serious,:: he agreed.  ::Decepticons are never seen skulking suspiciously around human power plants.::  
  
::I need to talk to you, later,::  Jazz said, and the uncharacteristically serious tone to his voice caused Prowl to push over an immediate surge of concern. ::In an official capacity,:: Jazz quickly clarified.  Prowl relaxed again.    
  
::About?::  
  
Jazz didn’t answer immediately, but his field felt unsettled.  ::Corruption,:: he finally sent, tone dark.  
  
Before Prowl could question further, Optimus said something that forced his attention back to his leader with a speed that left him feeling momentarily dazed.  His processor quickly replayed the phrase that had pulled his awareness and he sat upright.  Optimus had just reported all of the Seeker patrols falling back from their normal routes, having not been seen in two local days.  
  
“Every single one?” Prowl questioned.  There were just over a dozen trines based on Earth.  “There is not a single trine that we know of even performing search patterns somewhere?”  
  
“Every single one,” Optimus confirmed.    
  
“This on the tail of one going missing three decaorns ago,” Prowl said.    
  
“Correct,” Optimus said.  “Jazz, I would like you to brief Mirage and send him over.  If something has happened to the Seekers, we might have only a temporary tactical advantage while the Decepticons reorganize.  Intelligence only.”  
  
Jazz tilted his head forward and spread his hands out on the table, a sign for respectful disagreement.  “Sir, if I may, I am concerned about Mirage’s field capacity right now.  I would recommend sending—”  
  
“It will be Mirage,” Optimus said, and Prowl _felt_ the shocked energy ripple over Jazz’s frame.  “He is uniquely suited for this purpose.”  
  
Jazz gathered himself quickly, frowning.  “Even if my other agents lack the capacity to become invisible, I assure you, they are equally capable of remaining unseen.”  
  
“Commander, I will not repeat myself.”  
  
Jazz wrestled for a moment, torn between argument and obedience.  Obedience won.  He stood up.  “Of course, sir,” he said.  He pressed his fist over his spark and bowed his head for a moment before exiting.    
  
“Prowl, I would like you to theorize,” Optimus said, acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.  “And come up with early responses based on the various possible scenarios.  This is your top priority.”  
  
Prowl mimicked the gesture Jazz had just used.  He lifted his head.  “Yes, sir.”  
  
“The rest of you, dismissed, but you are to remain on yellow alert.  Based on what we find, this could turn into a quick-response situation, and I want you to all be ready.”  
  
Prowl filed out with the rest of them, already pulling all the personality and cultural files he had on the Seekers and queuing them up to cross-reference with the files on Decepticon culture.  Before he initiated the tactical programs he tried to comm. Jazz.  He received a tense, uneasy dismissal, accompanied by a brief image of Mirage, who was nodding in acceptance of his orders.  _Not the time_ , was the unspoken message.  
  
Prowl accepted that as he reached his office.  Jazz would be by later to talk about whatever it was he had mentioned earlier, and they could talk about this then.  He put a general lock on his office door and sat down, already immersed in his work.  

* * *

Jazz was there just kliks after Prowl signaled that he could see him now.  He strode in and locked the door behind him, and began to pace around the edge of the room, filling the small space with a dark, predatory energy.  Prowl waited, watching quietly, while Jazz changed direction every time he finished a circle.    
  
Finally he asked, “Why do you have reservations about Mirage’s field capacity?”  
  
Jazz watched him out of the corner of his vision, still pacing.  “Who’s asking?”  
  
Prowl pondered that for a moment.  “The Chief Tactician,” he finally said.    
  
“Mirage has not had sufficient time to recover from his last undercover operation,” Jazz said.    
  
Prowl nodded.  Special Ops was demanding, and there were accepted limits on how often an agent could be assigned for a reason.  It wasn’t a hard rule, though, and if circumstances demanded it be broken, it was.    
  
“And if I ask as me?” Prowl asked softly.  “As a friend?”  
  
Jazz stopped.  “Mirage has felt off since the last time he was sent.”  
  
Prowl pulled up the date from his logs, and his optics brightened with realization.  “That was right after the first trine disappeared,” he said.  If he hadn’t had the Seeker files actively pulled up, he never would have made the connection.  
  
Jazz nodded.    
  
Prowl leaned back.  “Off how?”  
  
“Just—off,” Jazz said.  “I can’t pinpoint what it is, but something has me concerned.  He wouldn’t let me plug in the last time we interfaced, either.”  
  
“Wouldn’t let or didn’t want to?”  
  
“Definitely wouldn’t let,” Jazz said.  “I use it to check up on their processor health, and he knows that.”  He started pacing again.  “And he didn’t want this assignment.  He didn’t say so, but it isn’t hard to tell.”  
  
Prowl watched Jazz, putting the pieces together.  With all his tactical and logic programs online, the conclusion was an instant one.  “Someone else has been giving Mirage instructions.”  
  
Jazz halted and his visor flared.  “You’re saying that someone has been messing with _my_ agent,” he snarled, turning on Prowl.  “ _Mine_.”  
  
Prowl held his hands up disarmingly.  Strategic move.  Calm and disarm the Ops commander who had a capacity for cruelty that Prowl was intimately familiar with.  Jazz was capable of inflicting serious damage on more than just himself when he was displeased with a mech, and Prowl didn’t want to inadvertently end up on the other end of that.  “Yes, that is what I’m saying.”  
  
Jazz hissed, frame shivering with tension as he began pacing again.  Prowl stood up, came around the front of his desk, keeping a safe distance away.    
  
“Jazz,” he said softly, and held out a hand.    
  
Jazz eyed it, face guarded, then stopped walking and slowly stepped over to Prowl, linking their fingers.  Prowl drew him in and touched their helms together.  “I need you calm,” he said.  “If we’re going to figure this out, I need you calm.”  
  
Jazz x-vented and nodded.    
  
“Can you do that?”    
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Good,” Prowl said.  He lifted his free hand up and ran his thumb over the ridge of Jazz’s helm.  “It stands to reason,” he said, “That there was more to that first trine disappearing than we’ve been led to believe.  Mirage was either instructed to find out what, or confirm a suspicion.  Now, he is the one assigned to go back, since he is the only capable spy who is fully informed of the situation.”  
  
“Whatever he found was enough to shake him,” Jazz said, a frown in his voice.  “And now they’ve sent an uncertain mech back undercover.”  He hissed softly.  “Dangerous, stupid move.”  
  
“Which is what leads me to believe that Optimus might be just as much in the dark as we are,” Prowl said.  “I do not believe he would send anyone in against your recommendation if he had a choice, so he might also be following very strict orders.”  
  
“Who does a Prime answer to?” Jazz asked, bristling.    
  
“A Senate.”  
  
Jazz jerked back.  “Since when do they get involved with Earth operations?”  
  
Prowl shook his head.  “What was the purpose of Mirage’s last operation?”  
  
Jazz’s visor dimmed slightly as he pulled the relevant files.  “Purely recon.  I was given instruction to send the agent least likely to be detected to—” He broke off and it felt like every joint in his frame locked.    
  
“To what?” Prowl asked, alarmed.    
  
“To scout out the possible vulnerabilities in the energon systems,” Jazz said.  He stared at Prowl.  “He found the access that I used to drop the virus.  That’s what I wanted to talk to you about before.”  
  
Prowl frowned back.  “The virus?”  
  
Jazz vented out and calmed himself again, with noticeable effort.  “I was seeing if I could hack into a clearance level beyond my own—I was bored!” he protested to Prowl’s exasperated look.    
  
“And you picked hacking?”  
  
Jazz shrugged.  “Yeah?”  
  
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Prowl said, shaking his head.  “So what did you hack?”  
  
“The virus files,” Jazz said, and actually winced a little under Prowl’s sudden glare.  “Not to punish,” he promised.  They had very strict rules about Jazz purposefully hurting himself—physically or mentally—without Prowl’s supervision or permission.  “I thought there wouldn’t be anything in them I didn’t already know.”  
  
“Fine,” Prowl said.  “So you hacked the top-clearance-level files because you were bored.”  
  
“Well, it passed the time,” Jazz said.  “And it was nothing unusual at first.  Ratchet had showed me a copy of the base chemical makeup, and it was the same that I could tell.  But there was a higher encryption, and when I broke that one the makeup changed.  I couldn’t tell what it was, I’m not good enough in that field, but it looked like it would still target reproductive systems.”  
  
“That virus was nasty enough,” Prowl said.  “What could it possibly be hiding that is worse?”  
  
Jazz shook his head.  “Do you think Ratchet would be able to tell?”  
  
Prowl thought about that, weighing the consequences of bringing Ratchet into this, and then quickly dismissed the idea.  “Possibly, but what we have is purely conjecture.  I would not want to involve him until we are more certain of what is going on, or if he is possibly involved.”  
  
“Come on, Ratchet?”  
  
“Every mech has a capacity for deception,” Prowl said.  A ping as his tactical systems alerted him to a statistically significant match in all the strings of information he was processing and comparing.  
  
_Mirage_ and _Senate_.  
  
“Jazz…”  
  
Jazz looked up, tensing at the uncharacteristic wariness in Prowl’s voice.  
  
“Of all your agents,” Prowl began, slowly, “Who would be the most likely to willingly take assignments from the Senate without question or protest, no matter what they were?”  
  
Jazz’s visor brightened and he stared back.  “No,” he said.    
  
Prowl just looked at him.    
  
Jazz shook his head and stepped back, out of Prowl’s reach.  “No,” he said again.  “No, you’re not—he wouldn’t—” He started to pace again.  “If they’re doing something worse than what we were told the virus is, Mirage wouldn’t help them unless he was ordered or coerced.  He would never _help_.”  
  
“I hope you’re right,” Prowl said.  He opened his arms and waited patiently for his shaken lover to step back into them.  Jazz pressed his face to Prowl’s neck, clinging to him.  Prowl circled his arms around and held him tightly.  His processor continued to link more strands of information in with the new theory.    
  
_He wouldn’t let me plug in the last time we interfaced…_  
  
Prowl offlined his optics.  He wanted to stop, desperately wanted to send the command to cease building this theory, but his responsibilities as SIC and tactician wouldn’t allow him.  If one of their own was willing to throw his lot in with the Senate—a dubious ally to the Autobots at best, at worst an organization that had its fingers deep within the cause of the war and a dangerous influence on the Prime—he needed to be prepared.  

* * *

Later, after Prowl had laid Jazz down in his berth, tasted his lover’s spill and then sheathed himself inside his ready valve, bringing Jazz to a second sobbing overload and himself to a frame-locking climax shortly after, he lay on his back, arm curled around Jazz’s shoulders while his lover recharged against him.  Prowl stared at the ceiling, unable to shut down his processor.    
  
Too many unknown variables and unexpected developments had come up today for him to settle comfortably.  His tactical systems were trying to create contingencies for contingencies of plans formed on less than half the amount of information he normally deemed acceptable.  
  
Once Mirage returned, he and Jazz would be able to see what information they could get out of the spy, and hopefully that would put some of his fears at ease and fill in some of the gaps in his strategy.  

* * *

Only, Mirage never came back. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self-harm warning for this chapter.

When Mirage missed his first checkpoint, Jazz was not outwardly concerned, even though Mirage had never himself missed one before.  Overall, first checkpoints were frequently missed, since few undercover operations came without their share of complications and delays.    
  
But when he missed his second, something that had never happened to one of Jazz’s agents on an intelligence-only mission, Jazz came to Prowl with a request that Prowl had hoped he would never have to field.    
  
Jazz wanted to hurt himself. 

* * *

“Please!” Jazz begged, following Prowl after he stalked away from his lover.    
  
Prowl whirled. “How the Pit many times do I have to tell you no?” he demanded.    
  
Jazz hissed at him.  “As many as it takes before you say yes.”   
  
“And what’s wrong with me doing it?” Prowl asked, trying not to growl.    
  
“It isn’t the same!”   
  
Prowl shook his helm.  “I said no, Jazz! I’m not going to let you.”     
  
“Frag you!” Jazz yelled, still not ready to quit.  “What even gives you the right to tell me no?”   
  
This time Prowl _did_ growl, a low, warning noise.  “You gave me that right.”   
  
“I can’t imagine what I was thinking,” Jazz snarled.  
  
Prowl snarled right back and stepped forward, grabbing Jazz’s wrist and spinning the other mech, wrenching his shoulder until it almost cracked out of place, pinning the arm against Jazz’s back, and holding his other hand, now wielding his knife, to Jazz’s throat.  “You were thinking of this,” he whispered, a dangerous edge to his voice.    
  
Jazz jerked against the hold.  “ _Slag you_ ,” he hissed.  “I didn’t give you that power so you could use it to frag me.”   
  
Prowl tightened his grip and shook, making Jazz’s helm hit the wall.  “Don’t tempt me,” he said, voice low.    
  
Jazz barked a laugh.  “Please,” he sneered.  “Like I could tempt you if I wasn’t bleeding out and almost dead.”   
  
It was a cheap shot, designed to hurt, and even through Prowl knew that, it succeeded completely.  He froze, stunned, optics widening for a moment, before he let the hurt twist through him and transform into something that simmered just below his armor.  “Like you’re one to talk,” he hissed.  “What kind of miswired glitch do you have to be to beg for more when someone is pushing a knife up your valve?”   
  
Jazz shouted, field flaring out.  “ _You're_ the one who gets off on it!  Tell me you don’t love seeing my energon on your spike!”  
  
Prowl tightened his grip.  “You need to get your processor reset,” he growled.    
  
“You need to get yours wiped,” Jazz shot back.    
  
Prowl vented heavily, fighting desperately against the urge to pull a knife across Jazz’s neck, right through the main fuel line.  His lover knew what he was playing with, and he knew there was little Prowl could do to intimidate him.  The worst Prowl could do would be to kill him, and even that held no power over Jazz.   
  
Prowl seethed.  As much as he hated it, circumstances being what they were, it was time to give Jazz what he wanted.  “I _will_ be present,” he said.    
  
Jazz stilled, startled, not quite sure he’d heard correctly.    
  
“And there will be rules,” Prowl continued.  “When you reach an energy level of my choosing, you will stop.”   
  
Jazz thought about that.  “What else?”   
  
Prowl relaxed his hold a little.  “Your self-repair systems stay online, and no overriding your cooling vents.”    
  
“Fine,” Jazz said.  “Is that all?”   
  
Prowl thought for a moment.  “I reserve the right to make judgment calls based on the situation.”   
  
“Oh, slag that,” Jazz said, gearing back up to fight again.    
  
“Slaggit, Jazz!” Prowl yelled, immediately strengthening his grip again.  “This is dangerous, don’t you get that?”   
  
“Of _course_ it’s dangerous!  Why do you _think_ I want to do it?”   
  
“It’s dangerous and I can’t risk you deactivating yourself if you can’t stop!”  Prowl felt his field shakes and he moaned, a quiet sound.  “I can’t—I can’t risk losing you.”   
  
Jazz went silent and still.    
  
Prowl sighed, loosened his grip, and let his arms move to wrap around Jazz’s chest.  He pulled him closed and rested his forehelm on his lover’s shoulder. “You know what would happen,” he whispered.  “I can’t risk that.”   
  
Jazz hesitated, then lifted his hand up to touch Prowl’s helm.  “No,” he murmured in agreement.  “You can’t.”  He cycled air, steadying himself.  “Alright,” he agreed.  “To everything.”   
  
Prowl shuddered, trying not to think about how close he had come to killing Jazz himself.  “Thank you,” he managed.  

Prowl stood to the side, tucked into a shadow and optics bright as he focused all of his attention on the mech sitting in the middle of the room, surrounded by a variety of instruments.  He had a direct line open in his processor to both Jazz’s vital readings and their private comm channel and there was not a single part of his processor that was not at least partly dedicated to what he was watching and how he would react to anything unexpected.    
  
Jazz moved his hand out, passing it over the objects—a prod, a knife, and an electric whip.  Prowl had to admit a significant amount of interest.  He knew this had been his lover’s routine before they formed their partnership, and he suspected he was watching what had once been a regular, comforting ritual.  When they had started, Prowl had demanded the rights to Jazz’s continuation of the practice.  Jazz had not asked until now.    
  
Finally, Jazz’s fingers dipped down to curl around the handle of the knife.  An old favorite, Prowl guessed, at the way Jazz held the weapon in what looked like a caress.  He couldn’t help the way his optics focused with intense interest as Jazz drew the first cut up the length of his arm, moving the tip of the blade through one of the seams.  Energon trickled out and Jazz’s face, previously so full of tension, was suddenly washed with peace.    
  
Prowl tried to tell himself that it was illogical and nonsensical to be jealous of Jazz causing that look on his own face, something Prowl was used to bringing out, but it did no good.  The envy coiled through him as Jazz pulled the knife up another seam and this time followed it all the way into his collar, drawing the weapon across his own neck.  His head fell back and he moaned softly.  Prowl’s hands clenched into fists at his sides.    
  
Bright, shining trails of energon soon crisscrossed Jazz’s front and the liquid dripped down his chassis, mingling with other bleeds, covering almost every surface in ever-changing patterns.  The cuts were shallow, though, and Prowl wasn’t anywhere near worried about Jazz’s energon levels.  His lover knew how to draw this out.  He made a mental note of the areas Jazz was favoring—the plating covering the array in the middle of his chest, his upper arms, his inner thighs.    
  
Prowl’s optics widened when Jazz’s interfacing panel drew away and he set the knife down and, with a tremble in his hand, brushed his thumb over his spike housing.  He moved slowly and carefully, drawing his spike out without forcing it to extend, but instead using soft touches and strokes.  Jazz sank back, lowering himself onto the ground, shifting his legs out in front of him, knees bent up and hips pushing into the loose grip of his fingers.    
  
Prowl felt a flicker of confusion.  Jazz had never become aroused like this when they were together.  Jazz’s spike came out all the way and Prowl heard a click indicating it was locked there until Jazz released it, no matter what he was feeling.  He realized Jazz’s intention when the saboteur reached down and took the knife again and held the flat of the blade against his spike.  He didn’t move for nearly three kliks, venting carefully, visor flickering in odd patterns.  He was steeling himself.    
  
And then with a precise flick of his wrist, Jazz flipped the knife to its blade and pulled down the full length of his spike.  His cry was short and stifled quickly, but it was full of the pain that Prowl had made an art of cultivating.  A dark need to explore and understand this new area, something he had thought about but never tried, since Jazz had never showed any interest in it, grew in him.  He tucked it away for later use.    
  
The scene before him stretched out, Jazz pushing himself right to the brink of his limits over and over, and Prowl was amazed at how much pain he could coax out of his own body.  He idly wondered if Jazz had written some kind of program to override self-preservation instinct, long ago, but the thought barely caught his attention; he was too intent on watching the way Jazz spasmed at the smallest of cuts.   
  
::Prowl—::  
  
Prowl straightened, optics narrowing in focus as he sent a ping to let Jazz know he was listening.   
  
::I need…:: Jazz shuddered and his hand clenched the knife, held still in the air.    
  
::Tell me what you need,:: Prowl crooned, taking a step forward.    
  
Jazz’s vents were straining with effort.  ::Voice,:: he finally sent, along with a burst of audio, hundreds of clips layered one over the other, all Prowl’s voice, whispering cruel nothings into Jazz’s audio receptors.  A surge of emotion was attached, all the things Jazz had felt upon hearing those words.  Guilt and shame and self-loathing, yes, but also relief that finally someone could say those things out loud, tell him what he could never admit to himself, punish him for what he had become.    
  
Prowl stepped forward.  With Jazz’s request, a sense of anxiety that had been buzzing in the corners of his processor since his lover had first asked for this faded, replaced by relief.  He finally pinpointed the cause of the anxiety.  He’d had no way to know that Jazz would still need him.  Without Jazz, Prowl had nothing left of his half of this partnership.  Without Prowl…Jazz still had himself.    
  
But he didn’t have Prowl’s voice and the words his lover whispered to him in the dark.    
  
::And—::  
  
::And?:: Prowl coaxed.    
  
The reply was another file, this one a vivid visual memory of Prowl’s fingers wrapped so carefully around the electric prod before it lowered down between Jazz’s legs.   
  
“Oh, lover,” Prowl purred.  “I thought you would never ask.”   
  
Jazz’s vents hitched.   
  
In the time that it took Prowl to kneel at Jazz’s side, he had transformed in to the cold, cruel creature that took such delight in Jazz’s pain.  He swiftly took up the prod and lingered for a moment, hovering near Jazz’s head.    
  
“Better—when you do it,” Jazz managed with a bit of a laugh.    
  
“Of course it is,” Prowl said, stroking Jazz’s helm.  “Because I know what you’ve done.”  His voice dropped.  “What you are.”   
  
Jazz’s hand lowered away from his spike, let the knife fall from his fingers.    
  
Prowl considered the spike for a moment.  “Is this what you want?” he asked, holding the prod just close enough for the charge to jump over.    
  
Jazz twitched and shook his head.  He grabbed Prowl’s hand and pushed it lower.  ::I like you inside.::  
  
Prowl’s had to fight not to groan.  ::I can give you that.::  
  
Jazz’s visor was bright in the dark room and his vents cycled with no small amount of what sounded like anticipation.    
  
Prowl circled the tip of the prod around Jazz’s valve, watching the way his lover’s body twitched as the small electric jumpers connected.  He pushed forward, teasing it at the entrance, and Jazz’s fingers clawed at the floor.  Prowl slide his thumb over the controls, very slowly pushing the charge up, watching the way Jazz’s back arched higher.    
  
Prowl slid the probe in.  There was immediate resistance as Jazz’s valve tightened and his field became saturated with pain.  Prowl tilted his helm and smirked, and pushed until he hit the bottom.  Jazz’s mouth fell open and his visor flickered out.    
  
“Maybe if you had tried harder,” Prowl said, lightly, as if he was discussing a routine security upgrade, “You could have kept Mirage safe.”  He changed the angle of the prod and switched it off long enough for Jazz to slump before flipping it back on.  “You could have avoided all of this.”  
  
His gaze flickered to Jazz’s spike, still force-extended and bleeding.  He shifted his weight and wrapped his other hand around it and stroked at the same pace that he moved the prod in and out.  Jazz’s hips bucked up into the touch, which also served to push himself harder onto the prod.  A cry tore from his vocalizer.      
  
Prowl’s engines revved up at the sight and his doorwings tensed as his spike tried to pressurize.  He forced his panel to stay closed, for now, and instead allowed rarely-used claws to slip out from his fingertips.  He placed them gently against the spike and drew down.  They cut easily through the thin, sensor-rich plating.  Jazz’s hand shot out and grabbed his and Prowl growled at him, pushing his claws in deeper.  With effort, Jazz let go.    
  
“You will regret it if you do that again,” Prowl warned, tracing back up the fresh cuts.  Jazz’s face contorted with pain.  It made Prowl _want._  
And there was no reason he could not have.   
  
Prowl flipped through different settings on the prod until he found an oscillating one.  He twisted it in Jazz’s valve for a few more moments, enjoying the full-body spasms each new charge caused, then pushed it as deep as it would go.  “Keep this in,” he said, and let go, watching for long enough to make sure Jazz had heard and understood.  Then he swung one leg up and over so he was straddling his lover.  He pricked the spike again, then harder.  Jazz jerked up.  “Oh, so you like that,” Prowl said.  He leaned in close, pressed his lips to Jazz’s helm.  “You like getting what you deserve, don’t you?”   
  
Jazz moaned.    
  
The sound made Prowl shudder and he gave in, letting his panel slide away.  His spike extended instantly and Prowl angled his hips to press it flush against Jazz’s.  The energon made the contact slick and hot, and when Prowl pushed, they slid so smoothly.  He tightened his grip and dug his claws in, pulling Jazz’s spike up to rub along his own.  The smell of spilled energon was strong and it made Prowl’s engines rumble as he pushed again.    
  
The probe pulsed with a particularly strong charge and it made Jazz arch and shriek.  Prowl raised his free hand and covered Jazz’s mouth and Jazz’s next scream was muffled.  Prowl bucked his hips forward; he was not going to last long, no matter what his initial intention had been.  Jazz sobbed and screamed beneath him, his frame alternating between being locked with tension and writhing from the pain from each new charge.  Prowl gasped and shuddered and drew his claws back and wrapped his fingers around both of their spikes, keeping them pressed together.   
  
Another charge flooded through Jazz’s body and Prowl caught just enough of the echo to push him into overload.  He kept his hand pushed firmly over Jazz’s mouth to quiet the cries as he squeezed their spikes harder, rubbing the open wounds on Jazz’s.  He shook and then slumped on top of a still-tense and jerking Jazz, taking a moment to recover before he rolled away and reached down to grip the prod again and pulled it out.   
  
Jazz sobbed again and rolled, curling on his side, shaking.    
  
Prowl mostly ignored his own resetting systems and leaned over, reaching around to brush gentle fingertips over Jazz’s spike.    
  
“Tell me what you want,” Prowl whispered.    
  
“No more,” Jazz managed, and with a groan he unlocked his spike and allowed it to draw away.  Prowl almost winced, knowing how much that had to hurt with the damage.    
  
Prowl hesitated, then very carefully drew Jazz up into his lap and wrapped his arms around him, holding tightly.    
  
“Mirage,” Jazz sobbed, fingers digging into Prowl’s arms.  “Oh, Primus, Mirage—”  
  
“Come on,” Prowl murmured, suddenly wondering if he had done the right thing, stepping in.  “Let’s get you fixed up.”  
  
Jazz didn’t fight him, barely responded as Prowl coaxed him up and onto the berth.  He fell into an incomplete shutdown, one that would still allow him to recharge but not deep enough for his processor to be able to properly sort the day’s files.  Long after Prowl had finished patching the wounds, he sat up and stroked Jazz’s helm, waiting for the tension to leave his face.   
  
It never did. 

* * *

When Prowl started booting the next morning he reached out with his field for Jazz’s, only to find himself alone in the berth.  He paused for a moment, realizing he was disappointed to find Jazz missing.  The berth felt colder than it should have and something in his spark felt strangely ... off.  He couldn’t put a name to it.  It felt like ... like...   
  
He shook himself.  There were more important things to worry about than strange feelings.  He forced himself to finish booting and sat up, looking around--just in case Jazz was nearby.   
  
Instead of Jazz, Prowl found an empty, spotless room that was devoid of all signs of the previous night.  He frowned.  He hadn’t done that.    
  
He looked down at his own frame and found it perfectly clean, which he also hadn’t done.  He’d cleaned up the worst in case they were called out, but he hadn’t detailed.  Jazz had done that.    
  
He pressed a hand to his chest, looking around again.  He felt like an intruder in here without Jazz.  This wasn’t a place he ever booted alone.    
  
He rose and fueled and left quickly, eager to get out of there, and made his way to the rec room to check on the mood of the overnight shift.  Jazz was the socialite of the officers, but Prowl wasn’t completely unaware of the benefits of keeping track of the crew’s mood, especially in this dramatically different environment.   
  
He heard the saboteur’s laugh before he was even through the door and it made his spark twist.  It was a good mimic, but it wasn’t Jazz’s real laugh, a sound that Prowl treasured.  When he looked in he saw Jazz sitting with his pedes up on a table, balancing his chair on two legs.  He was talking with Bluestreak, laughing about something.  The smile was so easy as he listened to Bluestreak rattle on, listening to whatever the young sniper felt like saying.    
  
Mecha were drawn to Jazz; he made them feel like they were the most important thing in that moment, like the biggest worry in Jazz’s life was them.  Prowl watched for just a moment before turning his attention inwards and pinging Optimus.    
  
::Yes, Prowl?::  came the immediate answer.    
  
::I am concerned about Jazz.  I was wondering if you might reconsider letting him go in.::  
  
::Mirage is capable,::  Optimus said.  ::And I can’t let Jazz go in.  You know that.::  
  
::Yes, but…::  
  
::I am busy, Prowl.  Unless you have a different suggestion, one that does not involve sending someone over there, I must devote my attention elsewhere.::  
  
::No,::  Prowl said.  ::I’m sorry to have interrupted.::   
  
The connection cut.  Prowl cocked his head and sent a ping over to Teletraan I for Optimus’s location signal.    
  
 _Masked,_ Teletraan I whispered back.    
  
Prowl frowned.  He looked back into the rec room, where Bluestreak was trying to topple Jazz out of his chair, getting splashed in the face with energon for his trouble, and tried to ignore the thought that it would be only too easy to send a spy who knew too much over to the Nemesis to have him silenced.    
  
He focused, instead, on the indisputable fact that he trusted his Prime, and would continue to do so until he was given absolute proof that he should not.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break! I've been posting chapters as I feel I've made significant progress on the end of the story and work and life have both gotten incredibly stressful so that slowed me down. 
> 
> This chapter is pretty short, but it didn't work to put it with either of the ones around it so it got its own :)

Prowl stood in Optimus’s private office waiting for his leader to turn around. Optimus had been standing with his arms folded, staring at the wall, since Prowl had arrived and had only given a single nod to acknowledge his Second’s presence. Prowl’s wings flicked uncertainly. This was not a behavior he was familiar with, and it made him uneasy.  
  
Finally Optimus turned around.  “Thank you for coming,” he said.    
  
“Of course,” Prowl said.  He tilted his head slightly and didn’t bother to hide his confusion.  “Is everything alright?  Are _you_ alright?”   
  
“I…” Optimus glanced to the side.  “Prowl, I need to know, if the need arose, would you be able to lead this crew?”   
  
Prowl’s optics flared bright with shock.  “Do you mean, take the Matrix?” he asked.   
  
 “No,” Optimus said quickly.  “No, I am not preparing for that.  Would you be able to take my place as commander of this army,” he clarified.    
  
“I…well, yes,” Prowl said.  “But why…?”  
  
Optimus just shook his head.  “I have asked Jazz to join us,” he said.  “He should be arriving momentarily.”   
  
Prowl frowned.  “Optimus, what is going on?”  
  
“Nothing is going on,” Optimus said, in a voice that permitted no argument.    
  
The door opened and closed behind Prowl, cutting off his response.  He didn’t look, but felt Jazz come up to stand even with him.    
  
“Jazz,” Optimus said.  “Thank you.”   
  
“Sir,” Jazz said, voice impassive.  Since Mirage had missed his second checkpoint, Jazz had taken up a strict formality with the Prime that had Prowl worried.    
  
“As you know,” Optimus said, “Mirage has now missed his fourth checkpoint.”   
  
“You sent him in against my recommendation,” Jazz said.  “And you will not let me send another in.”   
  
“It would not be safe,” Optimus said.  “Not without knowing what has happened.”   
  
“Which we won’t know until someone gets in there!” Jazz said, voice rising.    
  
Prowl wanted to back out of the room.  This was not the first time he had heard this argument, and he had no real desire to hear it again.   
  
“I said no, Jazz,” Optimus said, putting a bit of thunder into his voice.    
  
“Then let me go!” Jazz said.  “I can’t do nothing!”   
  
“You are too valuable to risk.”   
  
Prowl glanced down towards Jazz’s side and saw his lover’s hand, previously held in a tight fist, loosen just slightly, fingers ready to curl and strike. He had seen that movement before. Time to intervene. ::Jazz.:: No response, physical or otherwise. ::Commander, attend!::  
  
Jazz’s fingers flexed, then tensed again before he shifted his weight and raised his hand to his hip.  Prowl would have to be satisfied with that.    
  
Optimus watched the silent exchange with a strange look in his optics.  “I’ve asked you both here because I am forced to declare Mirage MIA.  Unless circumstances arise to indicate otherwise, he is considered lost.”   
  
Prowl only had a fraction of a nanoklik to react when Jazz move to strike. He spun and flung an arm out, catching the full force of Jazz’s forward movement with his shoulder, and dug his pedes in as he wrapped his other hand around the Ops commander’s wrist. He knew too well how fast that hand could pull a blade and score a devastating hit.  
  
“Jazz,” Optimus said, voice calm.  “I know this is hard—”  
  
“You sent my agent in and won’t let me help!” Jazz shouted, trying to throw Prowl.  “You don’t get to declare him lost until you do something to get him back!”   
  
Optimus didn’t answer and there was a single, frozen moment.   
  
“Jazz,” Prowl murmured into the silence. “Do not make me arrest you.”  
  
A sparkbeat passed between them, their gazes meeting, and then Jazz shifted.   
  
The stillness broke.   
  
Jazz pulled his weight back, bringing Prowl with him.  It threw Prowl’s balance and before he could correct, Jazz’s leg wrapped around his and twisted, taking both of Prowl’s legs out from under him.  He went down, but his grip on Jazz brought the saboteur with him.  As they landed, Jazz got an arm free and struck, the heel of his palm hitting the center of Prowl’s chevron.    
  
The force of the hit was enough to black out Prowl’s vision and it disoriented him for long enough for Jazz to get away and onto his pedes.   
  
Prowl pushed himself into a rapid reboot that was going to cause a massive processor ache later but worked in the short term to get him active. By the time he was up, Optimus had pinned and disarmed Jazz with one arm.  
  
“Go for a drive,” Optimus said in a deep growl.  “Right now, Jazz.”   
  
Jazz struggled pointlessly for another moment before he stopped, scowling mutinously but no longer fighting.  Optimus released him and Jazz stalked out without another word, pushing past Prowl on his way out.    
  
Prowl could only stare at the closing door.  “Sir … should I…”   
  
Optimus sighed.  “Give him time.  I am not surprised by that reaction.  Though I had hoped…”   
  
Prowl turned back to Optimus, hesitating for a moment.  “May I … speak freely?”   
  
The corners of Optimus’s optics crinkled up briefly.  “Always, my friend.”   
  
“What’s happening, it…it isn’t making a lot of sense.  There are a lot of unanswered questions, and from the outside…”   
  
“Do you trust me?”   
  
Prowl blinked.  “Of course.”  The answer came with no hesitation.    
  
“Then please do as I say.  I need your trust more than ever right now.”   
  
“I … of course, sir,” Prowl said, and saluted briefly before backing out of the office.  He wasted no time in running after Jazz, but when his lover didn’t want to be found, he could vanish into thin air.    
  
And right now, Jazz absolutely did not want to be found.  

* * *

Prowl spent the next two local days sitting at Teletraan I trying to program the sky spy to pierce any possible shields that the Seekers might be using.  They still had not been seen, and Optimus had not given him any more instruction or update on the matter, which left Prowl’s processor feeling unsettled from the loose ends and trying to do anything to close them.    
  
It also kept him occupied.   
  
There was little point to worrying about a Jazz who did not want to be looked after; he could take care of himself, and when he came back, Prowl would be there.  It would be an unnecessary use of processor power to fret when he couldn’t act.    
  
At least, that was what he tried to tell himself.  He couldn’t keep at least one subroutine from devoting itself at all times to pinging Jazz every other joor and staying alert for a response.  He even knew that the chance of Jazz responding were infinitesimal, and he knew that if he were to run those chances in a cost-benefit analysis of the energy it took to keep an open comm. link, it would fall firmly on the side of not bothering.    
  
But he couldn’t bring himself to close the link or stop trying to reach Jazz.


	6. Chapter 6

When Prowl finally gave up trying to find the Seekers for the night and returned to his quarters, he brought a datapad with him so he could work on backed up report reviews.  He didn’t take his optics off of the screen as he keyed in the code to his door, and then almost walked right into it when it didn’t open.  He moved his gaze to the keypad and frowned.  It was in the same position as always, which meant he should not have missed any of the keys.  He tried again, watching.  The door remained locked.    
  
Prowl‘s helm snapped up and he stared at the door.  He considered it for a moment, then tried a different code.  He heard the click of the door unlocking, prepared to open when he stepped forward.    
  
That was the nice way for Jazz to let Prowl know he was inside.  
  
The problem was, with Jazz, “nice” did not always mean anything good. So Prowl entered slowly, doorwings flared out to sense any motion, not sure if Jazz was here to show him exactly how much he didn’t appreciate Prowl siding with Prime, or—  
  
Prowl’s spark stuttered and it felt like every circuit and connection in his processor flared to life at the same time.     
  
Jazz was on the knees in the middle of the room, head bowed forward and arms behind his back.  His visor was dark, and only the slightest tilt of his head indicated that he was aware of Prowl’s entrance.  Prowl took a moment to absorb the scene, then stepped forward and stalked around Jazz in a circle.  Magnetic cuffs circled his wrists and locked him to the floor.   
  
“So you’re back,” Prowl finally said.    
  
Jazz didn’t answer.    
  
“You fought me, challenged me as your superior.”   
  
“I did what I had to.”   
  
“I will give you one chance to leave,” Prowl said, coming back around to Jazz’s front.  “One chance to pretend this never happened.  I will debrief and reprimand you formally, tomorrow, in my office.”   
  
“I’m not leaving,” Jazz said, and his shoulders shook.    
  
Prowl knelt down in front of him.  “If you stay, I will hurt you.  I will hurt you badly.”   
  
Jazz’s visor lit and he lifted his head.  “I found Mirage,” he whispered.    
  
Prowl’s optics widened.  “What…?”  And then he realized… “You went over there!”   
  
“I had to!”   
  
“Is he alive?”  
  
Jazz nodded.    
  
“Tell me what you saw,” Prowl ordered.    
  
Jazz shuddered and shook his head.  “Later,” he begged.  “Please, let me report later.  Prowl—”  
  
He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence as Prowl’s hand shot out and wrapped around his neck.   
  
“I gave you your chance,” Prowl rumbled.  “You will regret staying.”   
  
Jazz trembled.  Prowl reached around behind him, unlocked the magnetic cuffs from the floor, and then rose to his pedes and dragged Jazz behind him into the smaller room, throwing him unceremoniously onto the berth.  Jazz landed on his side and Prowl pounced on him with a snarl, pushing him onto his back and leaning in to sink his denta into his neck.  He racked his fingers down Jazz’s arm, tearing at wires and fuel lines.  Sparks flared, making the running energon glisten in the dark.    
  
The scent of it washed over Prowl.  He felt hazy, almost glitchy, as he leaned in for another bite.  Energon coated his lips and glossa.  He pulled back and flipped Jazz, pinning him face first into the berth, and pulled claws down the seams of his back.  Energon bloomed out and soaked the berth beneath them.    
  
Prowl let everything that had been happening—his confusion over Optimus, his worry for Jazz, concern for Mirage, uneasiness over the uncertainty of so many things—fade back to fuel a rage that he pushed out and pinpointed on the single target before him.    
  
Jazz gasped and cringed when he felt the intensity of the focused field, something that Prowl usually kept too close to be sensed.  His visor went black and he pressed his face forward into the berth, surrendering.    
  
That simple movement had Prowl attacking with an unfamiliar savagery.  This anger was not redirected from loss and failure, but instead its very source was right in front of him, legs spread and arms pinned, vulnerable and submitting.    
  
Jazz had been gone for two days.  He could have been anywhere, got caught up in anything.   
  
No need to hold back.   
  
Jazz would _scream_.  
  
\---  
  
It look Prowl longer than usual to dim the violent circuits.  He was sitting next to Jazz on the berth with his cooling fans straining, trying to bring his temperature down.  Jazz was motionless but for the subtle tremors that continued to shake him every few moments.  Prowl shook his head a few times, hoping the physical motion might somehow help, and slowly, the anger faded.  Faded, but didn't disappear. He could sense it there, lingering just beneath his self.    
  
Logic and understanding of his own processor would easily dictate fixing Jazz in silence and then retreating somewhere safe until he was calm enough to hear the official report, but Prowl wasn’t focused on logic right now.   
  
Jazz had disobeyed a direct order, and he needed to know _why_.  But first, he needed to know what Jazz had seen.    
  
Prowl glanced up and down Jazz’s frame with unusual detachment before rising to get what he needed.  A self-monitoring system flagged the discrepancy in his emotional state as worthy of caution and examination.  Prowl set it aside for later as he sat back down and rolled Jazz from his side to his back.    
  
It took a long time to patch the active bleeds and Prowl worked in silence.  Eventually, Jazz’s visor flickered back on and lit his hands with the pale blue light.    
  
“Vocalizer?”   
  
Jazz clicked and hummed a test, then nodded.    
  
“What did you see?”  
  
Jazz looked away.  “It’s scary quiet over there.  Makes it harder to get around, they notice every sound and movement that way.  Can’t blend into background noise.”   
  
“Quiet how?”  
  
“Cons at their posts, but nothing else.  Everyone looked jumpy, stayed in their quarters as much as I could tell except to fuel or report to duty.  And no Seekers.  Not that I ever saw, at least.”   
  
Prowl frowned as he soldered a sensory wire back into Jazz’s chassis, making the saboteur hiss.  “That’s unusual.”   
  
“It’s exactly what Mirage was sent to find,” Jazz said, voice going dark.    
  
“You said you saw him.”   
  
Jazz shifted and pushed himself up on one arm, the only one that was currently working.  The other was cradled against his chest.  Prowl leaned back to allow for the movement, glancing down as it caused Jazz’s legs to part slightly.  There was still energon seeping from open gouges that were too big for the self-repair programs, and hidden away, Prowl knew, the thinner, more sensitive metal of Jazz’s equipment was shredded.  His optics stayed focused there for too long, causing the self-monitoring flag to up its priority from caution to danger.  Prowl ignored it again but obediently shifted his focus to more appropriate places on Jazz’s body.    
  
“I only saw him because I got lucky,” Jazz said.  “And I couldn’t get close enough to talk.  And … he was talking to someone.  Hadta be a ‘Con.”   
  
Prowl’s optics widened.  “Which one?  What did he say?”  
  
“Couldn’t tell,” Jazz said, and hissed again.  “I was stuck in a maintenance shaft, looking through some grating.”   
  
“Did Mirage look like he was trying to hide?”   
  
“Yeah.  Got a lock on his signal as soon as he appeared, and he only stayed visible long enough to talk to someone around the corner.  Couldn’t find him after that, even tried comming him a few times and he wouldn’t answer.”   
  
Prowl pulled at a wire harder than was strictly necessary.  “You know Soundwave can pick up on those.”    
  
“Not if I’m careful,” Jazz muttered.  “Mirage should have been able to tell I was there after that.”   
  
Prowl shifted to Jazz’s other side and the saboteur sat all the way up to give him better access to the dislocated shoulder.  Prowl picked the limp arm up and examined the joint for a moment.  “Is it possible that he’s being mind-controlled again?  If it’s worked before…” He snapped the joint back into place, making Jazz cringe.  It was oddly satisfying.  The warning flag pinged again.    
  
Jazz tested the joint as Prowl knelt down and took the soldering gun back up. “If he was being controlled in some way I think he would have reported my being there.”  He jerked his arm away as Prowl touched the gun to a particularly sensitive node.  “Think you could make that thing any hotter?” he snapped.    
  
“That’s how hot it has to be to melt iridium alloy,” Prowl snapped back.  “What is with you?”   
  
Jazz scowled and looked away.  “Restless.”  He handed his arm back.   
  
Prowl worked in silence for a while after that, making sure to keep all of his focus on whatever task he was working on.  
  
“Prowl…”   
  
Prowl clicked to let Jazz know he was listening, not moving his optics.   
  
“I think … we need to start questioning whether Optimus is still—”  
  
Prowl dug his fingers deep into the wound he was currently cleaning out, making Jazz break off with an angry hiss.  “Don’t.”   
  
“I’m just—”  
  
“ _Don’t._ ”  Prowl pulled his hand out and stood up.  He could no longer afford to ignore the warning flags.  Anger was an entirely unprecedented emotion while he was repairing damage he had inflicted on Jazz and it was getting worse.  “I’ll be back.”   
  
Jazz’s visor flickered in surprise.  “Where are you going?”  
  
Prowl didn’t answer him as he went out into the main room and closed the door behind him, shutting Jazz in.  He offlined his optics and drew in a deep cycle of air that was free from the tang of energon and ozone and overload.   It helped.    
  
Starting to clean himself off helped even more.  It was routine and practiced and gave him something to do while he ran quick diagnostics and scans that all came back with nothing unusual to report that he didn’t already know.  Symptoms, but no cause.   
  
He was almost done with his front when the door opened behind him.  He glanced over his shoulder and saw Jazz linger for a moment before stepping out.  He still looked awful, and Prowl could tell it was hurting him to move.   
  
“You okay, Prowler?” Jazz asked.  His voice was soft, familiar, and Prowl’s vents caught in time with the skip in his spark.        
  
“I’m fine,” he said, turning his attention back to his cleaning.    
  
Jazz pressed up behind him and Prowl felt a soft, damp cloth running over one of his doorwings.  He shivered and Jazz began buffing his doorwings.  He moved slowly, going over everything Prowl couldn’t reach himself.  Prowl’s doorwings relaxed and lowered and his vents evened.  His processor even felt smoother.  He was sure it could be felt in his field, and he idly reflected that Jazz could accomplish in kliks what he had never quite managed in a lifetime.   
  
“There,” Jazz murmured, and pressed a gentle kiss on the top edge of his doorwing.    
  
His mouth was warm and Prowl felt a soft x-vent against his plating.  Just the brush of Jazz’s lips on his frame made his spark pulse faster and for a moment, he imagined turning and taking Jazz’s face in his hands, what it might feel like to--   
  
“Can we talk about this now?”  
  
Prowl’s doorwings tensed up and he took a step forward and turned around.  In an instant, his processor changed Jazz’s label from _lover_ to _opponent_.  “Not if you’re going to try to imply—”  
  
“I just think—”  
  
“I am warning you—”  
  
“Slag it, will you _listen_ to me?” Jazz shouted, drawing himself up.  The movement forced open a small fuel line that Prowl hadn’t fully patched and the tang of fresh energon came up over him.  A thick haze swept over him, coating his processors, his vision.  “Prime has been keeping things from us, that’s a _fact_.  You’re his Second, you should know everything that’s going on!”   
  
Prowl grabbed Jazz’s arm and tightened over one of the freshly patched wounds.  “I won’t tell you again.”   
  
Jazz stared at him and tried to pull his arm away.  “I think the Prime could be betraying us.”   
  
Something in Prowl snapped at the words.  They pulled one of his most deeply held and steadying beliefs, a belief that had long ago turned into fact, up into an unforgiving and damning light.  His vision whited out as a charge surged through him and his focus narrowed down to the simple fact that he had to protect this belief, and that meant destroying the mech who would dare say such a thing.  Circuits that been sluggishly roused by the scent of energon flared back to life only too easily and he struck, attacking the areas he knew were still vulnerable.    
  
Jazz blocked the initial strike and fell back, but his chassis was still too damaged in too many places for him to effectively hold his own against Prowl—especially when Prowl knew exactly where the damage was and how to hit it to cause the most pain.  He’d mastered the art of drawing agony from Jazz’s body so many vorns ago, the few strikes he needed to get Jazz favoring one side and then pinned back against the wall were almost laughable.    
  
Jazz’s pain bled through his field and it drew Prowl in, wanting, _craving_ it so intensely that his frame ached.  He wanted to bury himself in it, thrust his fingers into Jazz’s wounds until his field was nothing but agony.  One hand went to Jazz’s mouth and the other down between his legs, prying open the damaged array and pushing his fingers into the torn valve.    
  
Jazz screamed something, words, but his voice was too muffled and static-laced for Prowl to understand them.  He pushed again and twisted and Jazz arched, hands coming forward to push at Prowl’s chest.  Prowl growled and was forced to pull his hand up to press his forearm to Jazz’s chest.  As much as he wanted to take this mech right now, this one was too dangerous to be given time to fight back.   
  
He took his hand off Jazz’s mouth and in moments, was holding his blaster to the other’s helm.  Jazz froze when he felt the weapon and stared up at Prowl, visor bright and his field flaring out with sudden, ragged alarm.  “Prowl,” he gasped.  He was … afraid.   
  
Only the familiarity and tone of Jazz’s voice saved him.  It broke through the haze and forced the raging, violent circuits down, allowing the rest of Prowl’s processor to take control again.    
  
For Prowl, it was a surreal experience of viewing the dominant control in his processor switching over while also coming into the awareness of what he was doing.  He just barely stopped the command to fire from going through and then focused on the visual feed.    
  
Jazz, terrorized—Jazz, injured—Jazz, pinned and waiting to die and somehow still trusting him.  Trust was in the field, hidden deep behind the shock and horror, but still there.    
  
“Oh—” Prowl’s felt sick.  He shuddered and stumbled back, running to the opposite side of the room and bracing himself against the wall, shaking with the surges of electric horror that crackled through him and hit the liquid in his tanks.  He sank down to his knees, pressing his helm to the wall, and tried not to think about the fresh energon coating his fingers.   
  
Awful silence filled the room, disturbed only by the sounds of their vents as both mecha tried to steady themselves.  
  
Jazz broke it first.  “Prowl…”   
  
Prowl heard Jazz take a step forward and curled in tighter on himself.  
  
Another step.  “It’s—it’s okay,” Jazz managed to say, sounding like he was trying to convince himself of those words as much as Prowl.    
  
“What part of this is _okay?_ ” Prowl asked, vocalizer cracked with static.    
  
Jazz didn’t answer.    
  
Prowl shuddered.  “Jazz—I—”  
  
Very careful fingers curled around his doorwing, making Prowl jump and try to twist away.  Jazz’s grip was firm and he stroked his thumb over a sensitive spot.    
  
“Don’t,” Prowl choked.  “Do you realize what I wanted--”   
  
“I have a good idea.”    
  
“Then _why_ —” The rush of anger startled Prowl until he realized its source.  He stood and turned, forcing Jazz to pull back.  “Why are you still here?” he demanded.  “Slag it, Jazz, do you have some kind of death wish?”  Why wasn’t Jazz getting safely away from him?  
  
Jazz scowled at him.  “I’m not leaving.”   
  
Prowl snarled.  “Then I am,” he said, and pushed past Jazz to snatch up one of the discarded rags to clean his fingers and what little had rubbed off on his front.  He pulled an energon cube and put it on his desk.  “Refuel,” he ordered, and stalked towards the door.    
  
“—Wait!”   
  
Prowl stopped but didn’t turn around.  He knew what he’d see if he did, and he didn’t know if he could safely look at Jazz right now.  
  
“Where…?”   
  
“Away,” Prowl said shortly.   
  
“And what am I supposed to do, ask Ratchet nicely if he’ll patch me up and ignore the fact that I was fine when I got back?”   
  
That made Prowl freeze.  He turned around and stared at Jazz.  “You’ve already seen Ratchet?”   
  
Jazz shrugged, and the movement was stiff.  “Before I came here.”   
  
“And you didn’t think to tell me?!”   
  
“It wasn’t exactly my top priority,” Jazz said, voice turning to ice as he shifted and crossed his arms.    
  
“Then yes, I expect you to ask Ratchet nicely if he’ll patch you up,” Prowl said, heading back towards the door.    
  
“And tell him what!”   
  
“Think of something!  Tell him the truth for all I care!”  Prowl stepped out into the hallway.    
  
“Prowl!  Slag you, _Prowl!_ ”   
  
The door slid shut.  Prowl fled.    
  
\---  
  
Primus, if he existed, had a cruel sense of humor, Prowl decided.  He had escaped from his quarters and gone to the rec room to have somewhere to sit while he tried to settle his racing and flaring processor, and the topic at hand at the table next to his was which mech in the Ark was the best frag.  Jazz was a top contender.  Prowl would have left and gone to his office where he could debrief and review in peace, but he didn’t want to be easy to corner if Jazz came looking.    
  
“And sure, that’s important,” Sideswipe was saying, “But what’s a good frag without some decent snogging beforehand?”   
  
“Jazz is such a good kisser,” Windcharger said, sounding a little bit dreamy.    
  
Prowl fought against the urge to grimace.    
  
“Yeah, I’ll give you that,” Sunstreaker said.  “Not the best frag, but Jazz is definitely the best kisser.”   
  
“You only think he isn’t the best frag because he won’t let you spike him,” Sideswipe accused.  “You’re biased, so your vote doesn’t count.”   
  
“Does so!”   
  
“Does not!”   
  
Prowl glared down at his energon.  He had never actually kissed Jazz.  Oh sure, they had kissed, but it always ended in some kind of bite or dominance play.  Never kissing for the sake of kissing.  Prowl had a moment to wonder why that was, when they had long ago accepted nonviolent interfacing into whatever they were, before movement in his periphery caught his attention.    
  
Ratchet, who had been sitting and talking with Wheeljack, started and stood up before he took off at a run, looking alarmed.    
  
Prowl scowled.  Wonderful.    
  
Nearly a joor passed, in which Prowl continued to listen to bickering about kissing and fragging.   
  
::Ratchet to Prowl.  Medbay, _now._ ::


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've had about three months to come to grips with this and emotionally process it, so now it is time to break the news to readers: While working on this fic, my computer crashed with the file open, and the file completely corrupted and I lost about 75% of the new material. I had an old backup in my email with the remaining 25%. I've looked into everything I could think of, including paying for a service to restore the corrupt file, but it seems like it might be gone for good. I'm still planning on keeping the fic going, but historically I have a very hard time re-writing something, so I can't promise anything (or at least, I can't promise anything quickly). 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who is reading, and extra thank yous to my commenters <3 You make my day, every time.

Prowl walked into medbay, not sure what to expect.  All things considered, he wasn’t terribly surprised to see a mutinous looking Jazz, chassis still littered with wounds, though some of them were newly patched.  Ratchet stood a few paces away, practically radiating fury.    
  
Prowl considered his response very carefully.  Without knowing how Jazz had gotten here or what Ratchet knew, his words could be incriminating.  But when Ratchet didn’t start yelling at him, Prowl decided it was safe to assume that he had been called because he had the medic’s trust and was here in the position of confidant and enforcer.  “What happened?” he finally asked.   
  
“He won’t tell me what happened,” Ratchet growled, trying to step in.  Jazz hissed at him, bristling, and Ratchet eased away again.  “And he’s stopped letting me touch him.”  Ratchet met Prowl’s optics and motioned him over.  He lowered his voice when Prowl was close enough.  “I saw him coming back to base and he was fine then.  I think this was personal, and internal.”    
  
Prowl looked at Jazz, careful to keep his face devoid of expression.  “Where was he?”   
  
“In here,” Ratchet said.  “He commed me for help after he apparently got here himself.”  
  
“Can Red track the hall cameras back, see where he came from?”  
  
Jazz gave him a sharp look.    
  
“Asked,” Ratchet said.  “Right after I called you.  Looks like someone overrode the public area feeds with prerecorded files.  Probably this idiot here if you ask me.  Red isn’t in a good mood right now.  Can’t say I am either, since I’ll probably be dealing with that soon.”   
  
Looking at Jazz on the table, who was struggling to keep his field in check and holding himself in a way that Prowl knew was to hide the pain he was feeling, made Prowl feel suddenly drained.  He didn’t know if he could keep this up.   
  
“What happened, Jazz?” Prowl asked softly, taking a single step forward.  Jazz tensed but didn’t make any sound.  Prowl took another step, ignoring Ratchet’s incredulous look.  Prowl got close enough to wrap his fingers around Jazz’s shoulder.  “You need to tell Ratchet what happened.”  
  
 _Tell him I hurt you.  Tell him I left you bleeding._  
  
Jazz stared back, emotions warring on his face.  
  
“Prowl,” Ratchet said.  Prowl glanced at him.  “The damage isn’t just…well, it isn’t just what’s visible.”   
  
“Don’t you dare,” Jazz snarled at Ratchet, his moment of stillness with Prowl broken.   
  
“Well if you would grow up and tell me what happened, maybe I could just give Prowl the necessary information and let him arrest someone, but you won’t!”  Ratchet was trying his best to sound irritated, but his worry was coming through too strong for it to be successful.   
  
“Jazz,” Prowl said, trying to keep his voice steady.  “Please just tell him.”   
  
“Slag you,” Jazz hissed, throwing Prowl’s hand off.   
  
Ratchet growled.  “In that case,” he said, and Prowl turned to him.  “He was letting me do repairs and I noticed…his interface panel is heavily damaged.  It looks like…” He shook his head, looking almost sick.  “I’ve never seen…”   
  
“And that’s why he won’t let you touch him?”   
  
“He wouldn’t tell me who did it and I told him I’d have to just pull his memory banks.”  
  
Based on Ratchet’s tone, the medic grudgingly realized how much of a mistake it had been to threaten Jazz with that, and if the situation hadn’t been what it was, Prowl might have even laughed at him for it.  Jazz was fiercely protective over his processor and allowed very few to glimpse it.   
  
“He has the right to refuse that and further repair,” Ratchet continued, and he sounded very resentful of that at the moment.  “Since nothing is life-threatening or permanently damaging.  And I need another officer’s support to pull medical rank and force it.”   
  
“Which is why I’m here,” Prowl said.    
  
“Yes,” Ratchet said.  “Whoever did this to him needs to be found.  Someone sick did this.  It looks like he was tortured.  If I could do a processor read, figure out why he won’t talk…”   
  
Prowl looked at Jazz and knew immediately that if he supported Ratchet in his decision to force the Ops commander into repairs, let alone a processor read, he would never have Jazz’s trust again.    
  
“Let me talk to him first,” Prowl said.  “Alone.”   
  
“Alright,” Ratchet agreed.  “If anyone can talk some sense into him, it’s you.”  He started to turn away, then paused and sighed, turning back.  “Jazz, we can help, if you would just let us.  _Please_ let us help.”   
  
Jazz just glared at him.    
  
“Fine,” Ratchet grumbled, and waved them away.  “You’re free to go.  Tell me as soon as you have anything, Prowl, I’d like to have a few _words_ with the mech that did this.”   
  
“I will,” Prowl said.  He had no doubt that when Ratchet said “have a few words with” he meant “take apart wire by wire.”   
  
Jazz slid off the table and walked past both of them without, chin lifted high.  Prowl cycled wearily, then steeled himself and followed.  “Come with me,” he said, pointlessly, since Jazz already knew where they were going. 

* * *

They walked through mercifully empty hallways to Prowl’s quarters.  Jazz entered without a word and Prowl lingered for a moment to set a high-security lock on the door.    
  
“Primus, Jazz,” he said once they were both inside.    
  
Jazz bared his denta at him in a silent snarl.  “What the frag was that?” he demanded.  “Tell _Ratchet?_ ”   
  
Prowl ran his hand over his face and shook his head.  He didn’t answer and went to retrieve his small medical kit.  Jazz sat down in the single chair in the room with automatic obedience when Prowl pointed.  Prowl knelt down and picked up where Ratchet had left off.    
  
“Why not let Ratchet finish?” he asked. The unexpected silence he received in reply made him pause and look up.  “Jazz?  Why not?”  
  
“He…became Threat,” Jazz finally said.    
  
Prowl froze.  The way Jazz pronounced the word referenced a very basic comprehension of it, indicative of a processor state focused on survival that tended to strip away details like identity and faction and higher understanding.  Ratchet was their medic, he should not be able to push Jazz into that state.  “Ratchet became Threat,” he repeated.    
  
Jazz nodded, keeping his gaze to the side.  He knew that was a problem as much as Prowl.  
  
“Threat to _what?_ ” Prowl finally managed to ask.    
  
 “Us,” Jazz said, still refusing to look at him.  “If he’d pulled the memories and seen, he would have stopped us.”   
  
Prowl stopped what he was doing and reached up to brush his fingers over the array in Jazz’s chest, requesting entrance.  Jazz complied and let Prowl click the cable he’d already pulled from his own array into his port.    
  
Jazz already had the memory waiting for him when Prowl pushed his awareness forward.  He watched through Jazz’s eyes as Ratchet went from medic and friend, in a time when Jazz was angry and uncertain, to Threat.  If Ratchet had pushed Jazz too hard after that point, even so much as touched him, it was likely Ratchet would be dead.  
  
Prowl watched as impassively as he could, filing the experience away to analyze later while he switched away from the memory to look for what had caused it.    
  
The answer wasn’t hard to find; the hardline between Jazz’s mission files and the memories of their nights was still there, but since the last time Prowl had been here, dozens and dozens of other connections had linked in.  He rifled through them and found a dependency on a level that frightened him.  The levels of fear and mistrust Jazz had been experiencing were shockingly high and Prowl had become the only source of safety and calm to counter them.    
  
And so his attack had frightened and unbalanced Jazz, making it easy to fall back into a binary, Threat and Safety frame of mind, where somehow, Prowl had still come out as Safety.    
  
 _~This isn’t good, Jazz.~_  
  
 _~I know.~_  
  
Prowl vented slowly and pulled his awareness back, unplugging.  He tucked his cable away and picked his welder back up.  He worked in silence for a long time, processor racing.  It kept coming back to one logical conclusion.  “Maybe,” he murmured, “It wouldn’t be bad to tell someone.”   
  
Jazz immediately twisted away and stood up, staring at Prowl with a bright visor.  “How can you say that?”   
  
“Sit down,” Prowl said, not moving.  When Jazz didn’t make any move to comply, Prowl stood up and stalked closer.  “Sit down,” he repeated, firmer.   
  
Jazz shook his head, staring at him.  “How can you even _think_ about—”  
  
Prowl grabbed Jazz’s arm, letting his claws come out just enough to pierce the outer plating as he squeezed.  Jazz hissed and winced.  “I said _sit down_.”  
  
Jazz had his claws to Prowl’s throat in a flash, curling under a small, vulnerable seam. “Not until you explain.”   
  
“Explain what?” Prowl demanded.  “Explain that you submitted a perfectly valid concern to your direct superior and I almost killed you for it?  Explain that maybe, _maybe_ , I think it’s a bad thing that I came that close?  That despite it you still would have killed Ratchet to protect what we’re doing?”   
  
Jazz’s hand relaxed, just slightly.  “You know that?”   
  
“It wasn’t hard to figure out,” Prowl said, flicking his doorwings irritably.    
  
Jazz huffed.    
  
“Please sit down,” Prowl said quietly, letting go.    
  
After a moment, Jazz obeyed, and Prowl knelt back down.  Silence fell while he worked.    
  
“I shouldn’t have left,” Prowl finally said.  “I should have stayed and done this in the first place.”   
Jazz clicked in agreement.    
  
“I…I wanted to _kill_ you,” Prowl said, and the words sounded strange, even coming from his own vocalizer.  “And then you… I just think…what we’re doing, what this is…”   
  
Jazz’s fingers under his chin shocked him with their gentleness.  He obediently looked up at the slight pull.    
  
“I need this,” Jazz said.  “And you need this.  And they wouldn’t understand that.”   
  
Prowl looked away.  “Something is wrong with me, it shouldn’t have gone that far.  And you shouldn’t need…”  
  
“Shh,” Jazz whispered.  “So we messed up a little.  We just can’t talk about work in here, is all.  It’s okay.”   
  
Prowl offlined his optics and pressed his helm into Jazz’s caressing hand.  This was wrong, this was dangerous, he should be getting off this planet so Jazz’s dependency would ease, and yet—he couldn’t bring himself to do anything that could change things, take him from Jazz and the blissful relief of being allowed to express and understand his own violence.  “I _can'_ _t_ lose you.”   
  
“I know,” Jazz soothed.  “I know.”   
  
Prowl shuddered and tried not to think about what so easily could have been.

* * *

“So?” Ratchet asked, when Prowl reported back to him.  He did indeed have an offlined Red Alert on his table and had several instruments hooked up to his helm.    
  
Prowl cycled.  Damage control first.  Tearing through his own processor for reasons later.   
  
“So he won’t tell me anything,” Prowl said.  “And I don’t believe it’s my right to force answers.  I put him under a direct order to tell me if what happened posed the Ark or anyone else any risk, and he said it didn’t.  That was all I could get.”   
  
“His injuries?”   
  
“I helped with some after he calmed down.”  Prowl flicked his wings again.  “He’s willing to see you if you think it’s necessary, but doesn’t want to.”   
  
“But what about finding—”  
  
“I am not anywhere near done with this,” Prowl said.  “I’ll try talking to him again after he’s recharged, I don’t want to push too hard right now.  We’ll help him, Ratchet, I promise.  I just want to try less invasive techniques first.”   
  
“That mech definitely needs help,” Ratchet said, shaking his head.  “Prowl, what I saw…”   
  
Prowl steeled himself, already queuing up any number of the responses he and Jazz had worked out.    
  
“I can’t believe he won’t say anything,” Ratchet finally said, drooping.  “And I feel like there should be something we can do, but…”   
  
Prowl nodded, then decided to push the other issue that had been lingering in the forefront of his thoughts.  “Why did you call me to help you with a medical override order instead of Prime?”   
  
“Either one of you has the necessary authority over Jazz,” Ratchet said, sounding suddenly tense.    
  
“Yes but why _me_ ,” Prowl pressed.  “What made you choose?”   
  
“Prime left base very suddenly,” Ratchet admitted.  “And he’s been acting strangely, too.  Something this sensitive, I wanted someone I was sure of.”   
  
“Strangely,” Prowl repeated, and frowned.  That was it, he decided.  Whatever Optimus was doing had put so much strain on a partnership that had been functioning almost flawlessly for most of the war that Prowl had almost killed his lover defending actions that were both illogical and uncharacteristic.    
  
If Ratchet thought that Optimus was acting strangely, then he had a possible medical issue—or excuse to question—in his hands, and Optimus was going to answer for himself and his bizarre actions.  Jazz was safely in recharge and it would give Prowl plenty of time to get away and back.  
  
“Where is Prime now?”   
  
“Hang on,” Ratchet said.  His attention faded for a moment as he checked the medical locators only he had access to and apparently sent out a comm.  “He says he’s on patrol, north of here.”  
  
“Can you patch me his coordinates?” Prowl asked, already starting away.  He transformed, accepted Ratchet’s link, and shot off. 

* * *

Prowl came up behind Optimus, who was standing on top of a hill in a clearing in the pine forest.  He transformed in time to see Optimus whirling at the sound, optics wide.    
  
“Prowl, what are you—”  
  
“This,” Prowl said, stepping forward, “Is not patrol.  What _exactly_ is going on here?”   
  
“You should not be here,” Optimus said, stepping forward.  “I swear, we will talk later, and I will answer every question you have, but—”  
  
The roar of a jet engine had Prowl drawing and charging his blaster and aiming at the sky.  A familiar red and blue flash shot overhead, circled, and dove down towards them.  “Optimus!” Prowl shouted.  “Get back!”   
  
“Stand down!” Optimus thundered, and it shocked Prowl so much that he almost dropped his blaster right as Starscream transformed, landing right in front of them.    
  
And when Starscream just looked at him with a completely indifferent glance and conceited flick of his wings before turning to Optimus, Prowl felt his processor lock up and threaten a crash.    
  
“What is he doing here?” Starscream asked in a tone that sounded more like an annoyed sparkling than the Second in Command of the Decepticons who had just stumbled upon two Autobots.    
  
“Starscream…” Optimus said, in a voice that sounded strained with long-suffering patience.   
  
Prowl’s processor unlocked enough for him to straighten.  “What am I doing here?” he managed to gasp.  “What—what—”  His vocalizer shorted again.  _Starscream?_   He had almost killed Jazz because of—of _this?_ He had defended his Prime for _this?_   
  
“Prowl…” Optimus started.  “This is … this is a long story.”   
  
Starscream rounded on Optimus, stepping close enough to put a finger in the middle of his chest.  “A long story that you do not have time to tell, Prime.  I couldn’t help your spy, I’m sorry.  He’ll have to get back on his own.  And the Seekers are on the warpath.  You need to ready your people.”   
  
Optimus groaned.  “Ah, Mirage,” he said, and swore.  “Can’t you make them stand down?”  
  
“What is going on here!” Prowl finally was able to force his vocalizer online.  He turned to Optimus.  “Explain why I shouldn’t arrest you for treason right now!”   
  
“You always let him talk to you like that?” Starscream asked dryly.    
  
“Unlike your superior,” Optimus growled back, “I do not beat my Second into submission every time he questions me.”   
  
“Not _every_ time…”   
  
Shocked that they were able to ignore him, Prowl stepped forward.  “Optimus!”  
  
Optimus and Starscream glanced at each other before they turned to Prowl in unison.  “I’ve been…working…with Starscream,” Optimus said.  “You’re right, something is going on, but we don’t know exactly what.  And I’m reluctant…”    
  
Prowl hesitated for just a moment, equally reluctant to question his leader, but one look at Starscream chased away that hesitance.  “Seekers disappearing, the virus Jazz dropped, and Mirage,” he said.  “You fill in the details.”   
  
Optimus gave him a startled look, but it was the way Starscream’s optics narrowed and focused on him in an unfamiliar expression that made Prowl’s doorwings flick nervously.  He knew the Seeker would read the expression as easily as if Prowl had walked forward and announced the emotion, but he held his ground.    
  
“Tell him or silence him,” Starscream hissed when it became clear Optimus was having trouble with his answer.  “We don’t have all day.”   
  
Optimus gave Starscream a look that Prowl really thought ought to be a bit more severe than it was, considering what “silence him” probably meant to a Decepticon, but the Seeker’s words did seem to settle his internal debate.  “We know that the virus Jazz dropped isn’t what we were told in the original contact,” he said.  “Its true purpose seems to be to kill any mech who has just carried to term, leaving the sparkling orphaned.  We believe the eventual intent is to pair it with another virus that can force-spark a mech and raise an army from scratch instilled with the ideals of the organization behind this.  This was likely a test run.  A … failed test run.”   
  
“And you still let Jazz drop it?” Prowl asked, horrified, but also feeling his processor settle as Optimus spoke, rapidly rewriting the coding around Starscream that would allow him to begin to accept what he was learning.   
  
“Yes, but it shouldn’t have had any effect,” Optimus said.  “I gave Starscream a copy of its makeup, and he worked with their scientists to come up with a successful anti-viral to drop in the system before Jazz was ever sent.”  
  
“But the base makeup was different than what you were shown, and you didn’t realize there was a different encryption,” Prowl said, pieces beginning to fall into place.  He saw Optimus’s frown that he knew that information.  “So it didn’t work.”   
  
“Correct,” Starscream, a dangerous hiss behind his words.  “So no, Optimus, I cannot make them stand down.  A manufactured virus planted by an Autobot just killed three of our own and none of us could force-bond with the sparklings in order to save them.  They died this morning, and the Seekers are out for your sparks.”   
  
Optimus swore again.  “How much time?”   
  
“You have maybe half a joor until they’re here,” Starscream said.  “And if I don’t leave soon my cover is blown.”   
  
“Why can’t you just explain what you told me?” Prowl asked.    
  
“Oh, that’s brilliant, Autodolt,” Starscream said, rolling his optics.  “Why didn’t I think of that?  They’re sure to ignore eons of warring and the opportunity to spill your energon just because you didn’t commit this _particular_ atrocity.  Wait, never mind, no they’re not.”   
  
Optimus frowned at the Seeker and Starscream gave him a sharp look in return, accompanied by a quick flaring of his wings, and the momentary stillness that passed between them suggested a comm link.  Prowl’s processor stability wavered severely at the evidence that his leader had a pre-established link with the Decepticon SIC, and he quickly compensated with the logic that they would have to in order to communicate discretely.   
  
“We don’t know who is behind it,” Optimus finally said.  “The fewer who know about this, the safer.  We don’t know what spies they may have, and we don’t dare risk letting them know how much we’ve learned.”   
  
“The timing was more than coincidental,” Starscream added.  “Less than a joor after the first trine to carry since the early war was pulled from duty, your SpecOps team was assigned initial recon.”   
  
“With orders designed to look like they were from the Senate,” Optimus finished.    
  
“It would also reveal my association with your Prime,” Starscream said.  “We decided it is better in the long term of the war that I remain where I am.”  His optics faded out for a moment before they refocused on Optimus.  “TC says I have six kliks to rendezvous.”  He pulled something from subspace and handed it to Optimus.  “Install that.  Should protect you from the upgrades to the null rays.  It’ll still hurt like Pit, though.”   
  
Optimus nodded and took the chip.  “Go,” he said, regret in his voice.    
  
Starscream looked for a moment like he was going to take off, then he paused and glanced at Prowl, and a smirk drew across his face.  “Wait.  I may very well die today, and if I do, I do not want to go out without doing this first.”    
  
Optimus had enough time to look confused, and then shocked, as Starscream stepped forward, grabbed the top of his windshields, and tugged him down.  He reached with his other hand and brushed his thumb over what must have been a manual toggle for Optimus’s mask because it slid away and Starscream pulled him into a kiss.    
  
A very deep kiss that Optimus did not fight.  In fact, one that he even leaned into.  
  
Prowl felt his processor lock up again and he couldn’t keep the shock off his face.  Only the number of unanswered questions the exchange had settled kept him from crashing completely.   
  
“There,” Starscream said when he pulled away, still smirking, but his optics were almost soft while they still looked at Optimus.  Optimus ran his fingers over the top of Starscream’s wing.    
  
“Be careful,” Optimus said.   
  
“I’m too talented to be careful,” Starscream said.  Then he turned to Prowl, and his grin was absolutely wicked.  “Oh, that is a wonderful expression.  Now I can die happy.”   
  
“Starscream,” Optimus growled.    
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Starscream said, waving a hand.  “No talking about dying.”  He glanced at Prowl, gave him a knowing look.  “Your Prime is a real drag sometimes, you know?”  And then he leapt into the air, transformed, and rocketed away.    
  
Prowl forced his circuits to start firing again, one by one, until he had enough of them running that his processor unlocked with a shudder.  He looked at Optimus.  “How … how could you…”   
  
“We don’t have time,” Optimus said.  “Begin coordinating with base, we need to alert everyone.  The further away we meet the Seekers, the better." He transformed and started down the hill.    
  
Prowl opened up every comm line he had as he transformed and followed.    
  
“Is Starscream on our side?” he asked once he caught up.    
  
“It’s complicated,” Optimus said, shortly.  “But I swear to you, I have not and will never compromise the Ark, the Autobots, or our cause.”

Prowl considered that carefully for a full klik.  It wasn't a good time to make any judgments, not without knowing more, but the Prime he had always known and served would have meant those words.  He pinged Optimus the coordinates of his planned battlefield.  He'd picked it not long after booting up on Earth as a good location to defend against a possibly rogue Seeker force.  He hadn't expected to ever need it.    
  
When they were almost there, Prowl pulled even with his leader.  “So…” he said.  “I should probably try to not kill Starscream.”   
  
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Optimus said in a strained voice.  There was a pause.  “Besides, there are days when I would very much like to do that myself, and I would hate if you beat me to it.” 

* * *

They reached the battlefield before the rest of the Autobot troops.  Prowl query to Ironhide was answered quickly, with an ETA of less than two kliks.  He could already hear the engines.  Next to him, Optimus transformed into root mode and Prowl followed suit.  Optimus put a hand on Prowl’s shoulder, making Prowl look up.    
  
“I don’t think I have to tell you…” Optimus said.   
  
“Not a word,” Prowl said.  He fixed Optimus with a hard look.  “But you are going to explain a few things when this is done.”   
  
Optimus nodded once, and they both turned to watch the Autobots appear on the horizon.   
  
  
  



End file.
